Turn Your Back
by Sojourner84
Summary: AU.The night of the Stanford acceptance letter's arrival brings more grief to the Winchester family than any of them could have imagined.Dean must find a way to save his brother from his supposed destiny. Sam must hold onto who he is in order to survive.
1. Flawed Goodbye

**Turn Your Back**

**Rating:** T for language and violence

**Summary**: What would have caused Sam to not have left for college? The night of the acceptance letter's arrival brings more grief to Sam's life than he ever could have imagined.

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**Dedication**: To my little sister. No matter where your endeavors take you, I will always have your back. Congratulations on your graduation.

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Chapter 1- Flawed Goodbye

His fist tightened around the folded piece of paper, causing it to collapse in around itself, and jut out edges that cut into his palm. The man before him was screaming something. He had no idea what he was saying. He had shut out the tirade after the first few verbal blows had been exchanged. Now all he could feel was the acceptance letter compressed against clenched fingers and the embittered words rising up from within him and screaming to be released.

"Sam, are you listening to me?" John Winchester growled, snapping Sam's attention back into the fray. "'Cause I'm not standing here and having this discussion for my own good."

Discussion. Sam laughed off the word in his head. Calling what he was having at that moment a discussion was like calling a deluge a dripping faucet. The "discussion" was for John's own good, because Sam knew it sure as hell wasn't for his.

"It's Stanford, Dad!" Sam shot back, suddenly finding it impossible to hold back any longer. "God! Can't you just be happy for me? Just this once?"

John's stone cold exterior didn't even flinch at the words. He continued to stare down his youngest and most defiant son with his impassive glare.

"You can't go."

John's resolve was akin to a heavy steel trap. Solid. Un-breakable. Un-escapable. Once he had his mind set on something it was impossible to change. Sam had always likened their arguments to be being attacked by a pit bull. The man could latch onto any opinion and rip it to shreds. It was hard to have a valid view when fighting with John.

"Why can't I go?" Sam's voice had softened a bit, but it was shaking with rage. He had known it would come to this night. He had just hoped that things would have been different. He knew what this moment was suppose to look like. Parents were usually slapping their sons on the back, waving the acceptance letter around their places of work, and bragging to everyone that happened to pass them about how proud they were of their sons. No. He should have known better than to expect anything remotely close to that.

"You can't leave, because we need you too much at home. You know how things work around here."

The words 'home' and 'we need you' sounded like absolute bullshit to Sam at that moment. John didn't 'need' him. He could pursue the hunt just as well without him. On top of that, calling the Motel 8 they were staying at 'home' was ludicrous. He hadn't even had a home address to receive the letter from. He was lucky they had passed by the P.O. Box in Colorado that he had written down on his applications.

"Look, I can't just live my life on the road. I want to make something of myself." Sam laughed cynically. It was all he could do to release the energy that would have guided his fist through a wall. "Maybe you didn't hear me. I just told you that I got into Stanford. Stanford! Full ride!"

"Everyday we are getting closer to finding this thing that killed your mother, and you want to jump ship," John fumed. "You want to just drop this family. Pretend we never existed."

"Where did you pull that conclusion from?" Sam returned. "It's been 18 years. We're no closer to that damn thing now than we were back then. To hell with your damn quest!"

John moved quickly, grabbing Sam by the shirt and slamming him back against the wall. "You ungrateful…" He stopped himself as he realized what his anger was making him do. He would never strike his kids and he didn't plan on starting that night. But he could not help the ire that was rising despite that fact. Sam was pushing all the right buttons that evening.

Dean, who had been a silent observer from the moment Sam had made his announcement, suddenly was by their sides and ripping them apart. He held up his hands and made himself a wedge between the two.

"Let's just calm down," he said. "Take a few deep breaths and try this again." Dean looked his father in the face, his eyes pleading for him to stop before anything else would be said or done that everyone would regret later. However, despite Dean's efforts as peacemaker, the boiling point had already been reached for John and Sam. John saw his son as unappreciative and Sam saw his father as a callous tyrant.

John pointed at Sam and set his jaw, the words he was looking for being held back barely by the presence of Dean. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. Each time he could not articulate his thoughts.

"I'm going," Sam said insolently. "Short of you putting a bullet in my head, there is nothing you can do about it." Sam was through with taking orders, through with always having to take his father's word for things, and through with the hunt.

Dean shot a disappointed look back at Sam as his brother's words ripped through the room. Leave it to Sam to be too prideful to just let it drop. Dean didn't give up his position between his dad and Sam, but he braced himself mentally for the onslaught of angry words that would definitely follow a response like that.

"Fine. Go," John snarled. "But if you're going to go, you better stay the hell gone!"

Dean's head snapped back to his father's face, searching for any hint of a joke. His father was no where near a humorous mood. The veins bulging in his neck and the fierceness in his eyes that were tearing into Sam were evidence that John was not having an amusing moment.

"You're not serious?" Dean asked, praying that his father wasn't really going to make his brother choose between them and Stanford. Dean was hoping his father would take it back, because he knew which one Sam would choose.

"Fine," Sam said. "I'm gone."

Sam pushed past Dean, their shoulders connecting violently and knocking Dean off his balance slightly. The slamming of the screen door felt like a cheap shot to the gut to Dean. He looked at his father, still waiting for him to take it all back.

John wouldn't even look up at his son. He was focused on the ground and the empty silence that was following the fight. He looked small and worried. Not angry anymore. The hardened exterior was fading now. Softening. He looked like a man that had been beaten. Defeated.

"His choice," John finally gave Dean. He had a seat on the closest bed and put his head in his hands. "His choice…"

Dean had just watched his family dissolve in less than a few minutes. It left him feeling sick. Part of him was mad at John for being so stubborn, for issuing the ultimatum in the first place. At the same time he knew why he had done it. They were stronger together as a family. He knew there was some saying out there about a chord of three being unbreakable. He didn't care about the exact details, but knew they were that chord of three. Sam would be out there on his own. Sam would be alone. That thought drove him crazy as well. However, this was not supposed to be how they parted ways. This was not how Dean wanted Sam to walk away.

* * *

Sam had made it only a few feet away from the room when he heard the screen door open and slam shut again behind him. 

"Sam!" Dean called after him. "Get in the car."

"What?" Sam wasn't in the mood for this. The last thing he needed was to be talked out of leaving by his brother. "You heard the man," Sam said, ignoring Dean, and continuing to walk away. "I'm gone and I'm staying gone."

He heard the engine of the Impala roar to life and he stopped, realizing his brother was probably going to follow him until he got into the car. That or run him over with it.

Dean pulled his car up beside Sam and looked at him expectantly. "Get in."

"Why, Dean? So you can talk me out of going?"

Dean nodded toward the passenger side. "Please, Sam. Just get in the car."

* * *

The cool, crisp, Colorado night air felt freeing against Sam's face as he leaned against the door and breathed in the wind from the open window of the Impala. He had no idea where Dean was taking them, but he wasn't going to ask. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to just hear the sound of Zeppelin coming from the tape deck and the sound of the road passing by under him. Already the fresh breezes were pulling the heat from his cheeks and with it seemed to go the intensity of his anger. 

Dean pulled off onto a side road and they winded up through a forested area until they came to a clearing. Dean put the vehicle into park and got out without saying a word. Sam looked around at his surroundings. They were sitting in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the shadows of the mountains in the background.

"You going to get out of the car?" Dean asked, popping his head back into the Impala.

"Are you going to leave me here?" Sam asked.

Dean smirked, "If you continue to be a pain in my ass, then yeah. Come on."

Sam pushed open the door slowly and got up lazily from his seat. He stretched and once again took everything in. They were on some cliffs overlooking the town they were staying in. The sun had just vanished over the horizon, with not much proof left of its existence save but a blood red tracing of the mountains.

He watched as Dean opened the trunk and pulled out something. He couldn't see from where he was standing. Dean then slid onto the hood of his car and held out a beer to Sam.

"Congrats," he said.

Sam stared back at the bottle suspiciously like it was some trick. "I'm not 21," he said.

"You're killing me, Sam," Dean sighed.

Sam took the bottle, "So, did I just imagine that, or did you congratulate me?"

"Don't make me repeat myself," Dean said leaning back against the windshield and getting comfortable. He took a swig of beer and looked out over the mountains. "Don't know why you want to go waste four years with your nose in a book …" Dean paused before continuing, like it was painful to no end to get the words out. Sam watched his brother struggle over whatever was going through his mind. He didn't know that Dean was trying to put together more than just the words to say. He was gathering the strength to say them. He meant them. He just didn't like what would be the result of them.

"No matter what you choose, Sam, I'll always have your back."

Sam couldn't believe the words that had come out of his brother's mouth. Dean was never very much for grand speeches or emotional bound talks. However, every word that had passed between them spoke volumes to Sam. He took a seat beside Dean on the Impala and glanced down at the beer in his hands.

"I know that's not your first," Dean poked, noting Sam's scrutinizing stare.

"Yeah, well, still looking for the strings that are attached," Sam muttered, trying hard not to smile. It was a losing battle.

"There are none, Sam. Just shut up and drink your beer."

They sat there in silence, taking in their final moments. Sam didn't like to think of them as final moments, but that was what they were. Dean had brought him there for one reason; to say goodbye.

* * *

All the lights were off and the room was empty when Dean returned. That was his first clue that something was off. The interrupted dinner was still sitting on the table and the only light evident was the dim and fuzzy glow coming from the ancient black and white television. 

He looked back at the car and could see his brother sitting there and listening to phone messages on his cell phone. He was scribbling something down on a yellow pad. Dean was slightly relieved that their father was not there. It meant that Sam and John could have more time to cool down. In Dean's mind he figured that after a few days they would be on speaking terms again. That wasn't too much wishful thinking on his part either. Dean knew his father and he knew his brother. The two stubborn men just needed time to think. Apart. His dad had to be worried about Sam. There was no other explanation that Dean could put with the outbursts that evening. A little time and space would repair things. He just hoped his optimism wasn't falsely placed.

It was the oddity of the darkness and the silence of the room that was throwing Dean off. He had planned to come in and grab Sam's things, and drive him to the nearest bus stop. Now in the awkwardness of his father's absence, his relief was slowly turning into something else. Concern. He flipped open his cell phone and looked for any messages. There was one and he swore, beating himself up for missing the call. He quickly dialed up his voice mail and listened intently for an explanation.

"Dean, I got ….call from…daughter's murder … investigating," Dean pressed the phone into his ear so he could make out the words against all the static. He could barely understand it, but he guessed it was about the latest hunt they had just finished. "I thought…just a poltergeist… Thought those … … the house… dispelled it. I think …we were wrong…very wrong…"

Dean listened as the phone clicked and the obnoxiously upbeat female voice told him it was the end of the message. He stood there for a few seconds trying to piece together the words and make sense of them. He quickly called his dad back, but it went directly to voice mail.

Murder. Poltergeist. His dad had to be referring to the case they had just finished. The reason they were in Colorado was because of a murder up in one of the mountain villages. A Poltergeist had killed a woman, but they had gotten rid of it. Case closed. The end.

_We were wrong…very wrong_

Dean walked back to the car. Sam had seen him returning and the expression on his face. He got out and stood by his door, waiting for him to say something.

"We have to go," Dean said.

"Go where?" Sam asked. "What's going on?"

"Dad called. I think there is something wrong with the Montgomery case. Something we missed."

"We didn't miss anything Dean," Sam responded. "I went over the reports, the history of the house..." Sam was counting the points off on his fingers, overemphasizing the fact that he had the problem nailed.

"Then why did Dad go back out there? Huh?" Dean asked.

Sam looked down at the ground and shook his head in disbelief. "Can't you see that he wants me to stay. This is just his way of making it happen."

"What?" Dean laughed. "You're paranoid. He knows you're too smart to fall for something like that. No. Dad wouldn't go off without more planning if it wasn't an emergency."

"I don't know, Dean," Sam said wearily. He looked off down the road like that was where he wanted to be. Anywhere but there. He had been so close to just getting away. He had been so close to striking it out on his own. "It's a poltergeist," he continued. "Nothing you two can't handle without me."

"Come on, Sam. One last hunt. I'm just asking you for an hour. Two at the most."

"No," Sam stood his ground. He held up his phone and pointed it at Dean. "I had left a message with the financial aid office this morning when I got the letter. They got back to me and want to meet with me Wednesday. Now a Greyhound bus is leaving at eleven. I have to do this. There is no other option for me."

Dean looked down at his watch and noticed that it was a quarter till eleven. "Call them and change it."

"No, Dean," Sam shouted. "Look, what happened to all that bullshit about having my back."

Dean blinked in amazement that Sam would even bring that up, even use that against him. Sam was really on a roll with hurting the ones he loved.

_Why don't you just shoot me and step over the body if I'm standing in your way?_

"It wasn't bullshit!" Dean returned heatedly. "Just wish that you'd have ours."

Sam looked away from his brother and crossed his arms. "Dean…I…"

Dean held up his hand to stop him from continuing, and headed for the driver's side of the car. "I hope for dad's sake that you are right about this."

Sam stood across from Dean, his expression heavy laden with frustration. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean shrugged it off and nodded down at the car. "I hope you won't mind walking. Dad's in the opposite direction."

"Dean…"

Sam watched his brother disappear into the car. He backed away from the window and ducked down to see him inside. Dean started the engine and rolled down the window. For a second he looked like he was waiting for Sam to change his mind and get into the car.

"Have a nice life Sam. Maybe, if you find the time, drop me a line or something," Dean said coldly before turning up the music and backing out of the parking space.

Sam stood there watching the Impala peel out of the parking lot. The screeching of the tires tore through his numb mind and he started to feel like an ass for everything he had just said. This was not how they were supposed to part ways. This was not how Sam wanted to leave Dean.

He checked his watch, grabbed his bags out of the room, and started his walk to the bus stop.


	2. Critical Error

Chapter 2: Critical Error

The single, solitary light that hung from the street lamp above buzzed softly its electric glow. Every once in a while it would flicker and die, leaving the bus stop in a few seconds of darkness. Sam sat on the cold aluminum bench outside of the bus depot watching the empty road for his bus. The man behind the counter at the station had sold him his ticket, promised the bus would be late, but it would be there, and had then promptly closed up shop. Now there was no one around except Sam, a guy in a dirty trench coat picking at his teeth, and the defective street lamp.

Sam thought about what he had said to his father and his brother. He had been so strong in his convictions earlier that night. Now, he had lost the fervor. He blamed Dean for that. If his brother hadn't come after him, if his brother had just let him storm off, then he wouldn't be sitting there regretting every word and beating himself up inside for how much of a jerk he was. Then again, he probably would have eventually. He would have made his meeting, he would have made some living arrangement, and then at some moment when he least expected it, it all would have flooded in on him. The realization that he was alone and he had shut out the only family he had.

_Dad called. I think there is something wrong with the Montgomery_ _case. Something we missed._

Dean's words reverberated through his mind and he could not stop them from sparking doubt. Doubt was clawing at the back of his mind. Doubt that he had messed up in his haste to make this case out to be nothing. He had wanted this case to be short and sweet. He had wanted to be done and on his way to California shortly after making his announcement. He had wanted this to be his last hunt.

He opened his backpack and started to look for the case files he had printed up. He knew they were still in there, since he hadn't taken the time to leave them with his dad. He finally pulled out a good sized stack of papers in a manila folder. Opening up to the first report he cast a reverent eye onto the young woman who was laying there in the photograph. Her eyes stared back up at him, dead and frozen wide in horror. Her pale and lifeless face looking back at him. She was Lauren Montgomery.

The Montgomery family had recently lost Lauren in what had perceptibly been a murder. This was apparent in the way her mouth had been open in a silent scream, her arms and legs twisted in all directions as if fighting off an attacker. The investigation had hit a snag however when there were no signs of forced entry into the house. No hair or fingerprints. No trace. Autopsy had revealed blunt force trauma to all major organs in her body. The strange part was that the damage had not been dealt to her externally but internally. The only outer mark was a jagged "S" carved into her shoulder.

The newspapers had immediately printed a story dubbing the attacker the Invisible Man. That was when Dean picked up the morning paper off the front step of their current motel. That was when they had headed off to Colorado. That was when this whole hunt started. The Winchesters knew that headlines involving invisible men were usually something relating to their areas of expertise. Their 'gig' as Dean liked to put it.

After targeting a local cop and getting a few drinks into her, Dean had used the 'gifts' God had given him to grab a few files on the case and a local CSI badge to duplicate. After that it was off to the Montgomery ranch to question the family.

In retrospect, nothing about this case had been starkly different from cases in the past. They had hunts down to an art. Dean poured on the charm. Sam did the research. Dad shot the baddie in the face. Then they were back on the road. It was methodical and border lining on predictable. They were very comfortable in their routine. Maybe that was what had gone wrong. Sam had let it just be routine. Anything that could have turned them away from the quickest path to the end of the hunt he ignored entirely. Sam had let it just be routine because that best served what he wanted to do when he was done. Leave.

Sam flipped open another report and started to review it again. He had skimmed these reports the first time just to make sure there wasn't a glaring link. There had been four unexplained murders prior to Montgomery in the surrounding area within the past few months. Each woman had died in a different way. The common ground was the fact that none of the crime scenes showed forced entry. The invisible assailant was called into question for these deaths as well. So, why had Sam discredited the theory that the murders were related? What he had thought at the time was pure luck. A poltergeist tied directly to Lauren with no connection to the other women. That was why he had stopped researching the others.

Before the interview of the Montgomery family, Sam had originally planned to go interview the families of the other victims. He didn't have to when Mrs. Montgomery, Lauren's mother, revealed an old family secret. Her abusive husband had taken a nasty "fall" off the hay loft one day. Now, while Mrs. Montgomery claimed that the poor man had a little too much to drink that day, she had confided in Sam that he might have had a little help. Naturally this felt like an isolated problem to Sam. He had disregarded the other reports and had started to focus solely on the vengeful spirit of the old woman's sadistic husband.

His name was Steve, which explained the horrible cuts on Lauren's shoulder in an "S" shape. The poltergeist responded to the name Steve. The bastard even threw a lot of stuff around the house like he had when he was a drunk. He had tried to kill Dean with an iron, behead Sam with a coffee pot, and had caused his dad to sprain an ankle by pushing him down the stairs. All previous behaviors that Mrs. Montgomery found all too familiar of her old husband. So there had only been one solution as far as Sam was concerned. Salt. Burn. Rectify.

_I think there is something wrong…Something we missed._

Okay. So they might have missed something. Sam didn't know where else to start looking for possible neglect other than the other victims and their cases. He flipped past Lauren's information and started to read into the next woman's file. He had nothing else to do while waiting, and striking up a conversation with the wild eyed, grey haired gentleman-who was still digging for gold between his teeth-didn't seem like the best idea. On top of that Sam could not get rid of Dean's words, and the way he had asked him to come with him.

_One last hunt…_

Some of the papers shifted on his lap and started to fall out of the stack. He went to grab them before they fell, however, his cell phone rang at that instant and he missed them. He was immediately forced to watch helplessly as they scattered everywhere on the ground. The older man stopped his annoying habit and started to laugh as Sam bent down to scrape up the photos and loose leaf. Sam found nothing funny about the situation at hand and was incensed that the man would not stop laughing.

_Sure, laugh it up!_

"It's for you," the man chortled the obvious, and pointed to Sam's open bag where the ringing was coming from.

"Yeah," Sam responded sarcastically. "I gathered that."

The ringing stopped and Sam looked back down at the ground and the myriad of papers. As he crouched there with only half the contents of the folder pressed against his chest, he noticed that he was staring at the autopsy photos from the victims. He squinted in the bad lighting to see if he was making out what he thought he was seeing. The light above flickered again and Sam franticly started to spread out the photos before him. Letters. Each woman had a close up of a jagged letter carved into her back, and they were not all the same one.

_Something we missed._

The light went out above and Sam's heart stopped as put the pieces of the puzzle together in his head. The link he had missed the first time around was now staring him back in the face. So glaringly palpable that he felt every muscle and nerve go numb at the thought. The letters, "M", "Y", "A", "M"…

The light hummed back to life just as Sam flipped over Lauren's close up photo of the letter "S." In the street lamp's incandescence Sam stared in revulsion at the name spelled out before him: SAMMY.

"Oh, God," Sam breathed. He dropped the stack and stumbled backward, banging his back hard up against the bench.

_Shit!_

The mind could play tricks. The mind could make something out of nothing. But this was clear as day, and Sam choked back any more outcries as he tried to find the strength to stand. He turned to look at the only other human being around and was unsettled to see the man was just smiling back at him. Unblinking. Staring with a stupid grin. Sam started to shove everything back into his backpack, avoiding looking back over the pictures in order or the man.

His mind was flying through the possibilities of what it all meant. All he could come up with was this thing sure as hell wasn't a poltergeist. Poltergeists didn't leave you a perfectly planned out message over several weeks in several different locations. This "thing" knew him. And right now, his dad and brother were out hunting something they thought was a mere ghost.

Sam dug out his cell phone and started to pace as he dialed up Dean. His fingers were shaking so badly that he had to punch in the number several times before he finally got it right. He cursed himself for not having him on speed dial. The phone rang several times and only to finally dump Sam into a voicemail. He listened through his brother's greeting, wishing that it was really him. Wishing that he hadn't said those things to him.

"Dean," Sam started immediately after the beep. "Look, you were right, okay…we missed something. I missed something. I missed something big. 'It' knows me. There are only a handful of things that can know people and follow them. You need to call me back if you get this. You need to be care…"

He heard the hollow click of a call dropped and quickly pulled away the phone from his ear to look at the screen. One bar was left and even that fluttered on and off in availability. He was about to redial when he noticed there was a voice mail waiting for him. Maybe Dean had tried to call him back. He continued to pace, with cell phone eagerly pressed to his ear as voicemail was dialed up.

"Sammy."

The unrecognizable voice that came through the phone was just barely a whisper. It was raspy and left him feeling cold. Numb. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up and he felt heavy with helplessness.

"Best of luck at school, Sammy," it derided.

Best of luck. It wasn't a well wish. It was a mockery.

The low rumble of a large engine could be heard and Sam saw that the bus had finally arrived. It crawled around the bend and came to a stop before him. The doors labored open and the driver looked down at Sam waiting for him to move.

"Hey, kid, you getting on?"

The man looked weary of the night of traveling he was about to embark on, and Sam was just another body that was slowing him down. He wasn't going to try to hide his impatience. It was written all over his face.

The man in the dirty trench coat laughed as he passed Sam by and ascended the bus stairs. Sam didn't even take notice. He just stood there, his knuckles turning white against the phone he was constricting in his hand.

"Well kid?"

Sam shook his head and backed away from the bus. The driver rolled his eyes and shut the doors. Sam looked down at his watch and then around at the empty parking lot and ghost depot. There wasn't a soul around and he needed a vehicle. He needed to get to his dad and Dean.

* * *

Dean gave a passive glance over at his cell phone when he realized it was ringing through the music. He could see Sam's name flash over the caller I.D. and he chose to ignore it. In fact he even turned up the music louder to drown out the ringing.

"What's wrong, Sam?" Dean muttered to himself. "Miss your bus?"

A few hours of sitting around at the bus stop would be good for his brother. At that moment he could care less if it was callous of him to think that way. Sam needed to do what was best for Sam and Dean…well right now Dean was hoping that his father was doing alright by himself.

He came to the entrance of the dirt road that belonged to the Montgomery's farm. The dark silhouettes of the main house, barn, and silos were all he could see from where he was. The property was very poorly lit and none of the lights were on inside the house. Dean parked the Impala close to the end of the road and walked the rest of the way. As he got closer to the gate he could see his father's truck sitting beside it. He jogged up to the truck and could see that it was vacant.

After hopping the fence using one hand, he paused and double checked his sawed off shotgun for salt rounds and his patted his pockets for additional ammo. Satisfied that he had enough with him, he then proceeded up the gravel driveway to the main house. If the bastard wasn't gone from this house, he'd make sure he stayed in his grave this time.

The front door to the house was wide open. Dean remembered that after they had burned the bones and the violent Mr. Montgomery had stopped his assault, the house had been quiet. Mrs. Montgomery had told them she needed to get away. She had needed to mourn her daughter properly. "To many memories," she had said while staring off in the distance. She wasn't staying there anymore to Dean's knowledge. So, who had called his father? How had John Winchester known that something was a miss in the hunt?

The wooden boards of the foyer creaked under his feet and he paused at the bottom of the staircase, listening for any movement in response to his presence. If his father was walking around, the old house would let one of them know the other was there.

Then it hit his nose. It had been nothing but soft wafts of pine and fresh cut hay up until that point, but now he recoiled as the new stench grew stronger.

"Sulfur," Dean named the fragrance quickly. It was a smell he had been trained to detect. "How the hell did we miss sulfur the first time?"

The floor boards groaned up above him and Dean looked up just in time to see a shadow of someone pass over the top stair and move from one room to another.

"Dad?" He called out, moving up the stairs cautiously.

There wasn't a response and all Dean could hear was the beating of his own heart in his chest and the inescapable moaning of the wooden stairs under his weight. He would be lying if he said that at that moment he wasn't afraid. It was his first time hunting alone and that sent the adrenaline coursing through him like a freight train. He paused at the door he had seen the shadow move to. Taking in a few deep breaths he stood back, kicked open the door and raised the shotgun.

Nothing. The room was completely empty.

Dean lowed his weapon and went into the room. He looked around for a few seconds, and then decided to go back downstairs. Before he got a chance, he noticed from the window that the barn light was going on and off. It was starting to become very clear that this thing was messing with him, leading him from spot to spot. The problem was, to find his dad, he had to play along.

* * *

Sam crouched down low beside a car outside of the bar next to the motel. He had made his way back there to see if he could "barrow" a set of wheels. His predicament was that all he had was a hanger and Dean's half ass lesson on how to hotwire a car.

_Perfect_

Sam sat there trying to remember everything that Dean had taught him. He remembered something about looking for the idiots that left their doors unlocked first, but he had already tried a few handles and no one had left their car unlocked. Dean had also told him that if someone had left their window cracked slightly, then by all means, it was a frickin' invitation to be ripped off, and Sam would be doing the guy a favor by teaching him not to be such a dumb ass. None of the windows were open though, and Sam stared down at the hanger in his hands, Dean's lesson coming back to him in brief installments. Sam had never thought he would need the information. That was why he didn't pay that much attention whenever Dean went off about the art of carjacking, card sharking, pool hustling, and a myriad of other "talents" that Dean possessed and Sam was convinced would have his brother in jail before age twenty five.

Make a "J." Okay. He remembered that at least and he started to straighten out the wire hanger and fashion it to its appropriate shape. The door to the bar swung open and Sam ducked down lower. He waited as a drunken couple staggered out and made their way to their car. When Sam was sure they were no where near him, he continued on the car he had chosen.

_Slide the hanger into the door, between the window and the weather stripping. _

Sam stood up and looked around cautiously, then began to work the wire between the glass and rubber. If only Dean could see him now. He could already see the grin of elation and pride. He would probably crack some joke about rubbing off on Sam and how corruptible Sam was. Yeah, Sam could see it now. His brother would be more excited that Sam had stolen a car than the actual fact that Sam had made it into college. Too bad Sam was eighteen. Getting caught was going to mean doing some time.

The wire slid beautifully into the vehicle and Sam had the door open in no time. Now came the fun part. The hotwiring.

_Complete the ignition circuit by locating the ignition wires attached to the ignition switch under the dashboard. Detach them and cross the ends. Complete _the _starter motor circuit, by detaching the starter motor wire from the ignition wire and touching it to a powered wire on the other side of the ignition switch._

Sam wished that he had more than just his memories of Dean's voice guiding him through this. It was a pain to work through in the dark and without having done it himself in the past. The bar door opened up again, and Sam stopped what he was doing, looking up just in time to see a police officer saunter outside for a smoke.

* * *

A/N: I want to thank my editors, November's Guest and Nichole Thompson. I couldn't do this without them. Also, thanks for the amazing responses. I love it when I get reviews. Thanks to all of you guys for your support. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated. Let me know what you think. 


	3. Cracked Mask

Chapter 3: Cracked Mask

The barn lights had stopped their spastic electrical surges by the time Dean had made it to the front door. He stood there for a second, listening to the wind as it rattled through the rotting planks of the neglected, derelict structure. The first time he had seen it, he had thought that it looked like simply leaning on the side would bring the whole thing down. That had been in the daylight. Now, in the black of night, he was questioning his sanity as he started toward the rickety pile of wood and iron.

The doors were opening slightly and slamming into each other with the sporadic air currents. He grabbed the rusty handle of one in mid swing and slid in behind it. The air was thick with recently up-heaved dust and hay. Dean's flashlight illuminated the dirt rain, searching the rafters and lofts.

"Dad?" He coughed as he breathed in the tainted oxygen. He cleared his throat and called out again, louder. He didn't care how much noise he was making. The damned thing about supernatural entities was that it was almost impossible to sneak around them. They already knew you were there. Despite this fact, he couldn't keep the tension out of his walk. The way every footfall was carefully placed. He was being hunted and he knew it. He could feel it. Dean knew that even though this thing was pulling him along, he still had to tell himself he was the one hunting and that he was the one in control.

He rounded a piece of farming equipment that had been blocking his view of the back half of the barn. The flashlight beam fell across a ragged hole punched through the worm eaten wood. The size of the opening blocked him from going any further, and the explanation for the filth filled air that Dean was choking on, was suddenly becoming clear. Something had fallen through.

Dean grabbed onto a coil of bailing wire that was anchored down to the floor, wrapped the end a few times around his arm, and leaned out over the hole. The drop was a long way down, and he could barely make out the bottom through the settling dust flurry and darkness. He could hear water running below and wondered if he should go down to investigate. There was nowhere else for him to go but down anyway.

His flashlight passed over something below and he quickly returned the beam to the object, trying to make out what he was looking at. A pant leg and shoe, floating in murky waters below, were all that were visible from where he was standing. When Dean suddenly recognized them, he felt panic hit him in violent, unrelenting stabs to the heart.

"Dad!"

Dean's foot slipped when he tried to get a better look and he dropped a few feet before his arm was ripped upward, still wrapped up in the bailing wire. He dangled from the end, his muscles screaming under the stress of holding up his body. It was when he was sure that his arm hadn't been dislocated, that he was able to pull himself back up onto the edge. The thin wire dug into his forearm and cut open his palm, but he ignored the pain as he contracted his muscles to lift himself up, and grabbed onto the edge.

Dean didn't miss a beat, his near fall an insignificant thought, as he grabbed at a rope nearby and tied off one end on the equipment. He was then back into the hole, dropping as fast as he could, disregarding the rope burning into his already opened palm.

When he hit the water, he had not anticipated that it was going to be so deep, or so cold. He had let go of the rope prematurely and dropped a few feet underneath the surface, the icy water shocking his body into full alertness. Dean found his footing and stood up, moving as fast as he could through the waist deep muck. He made it to John's side and lifted his father's face from the water, pulling him close into his chest and dragging him over to a more elevated landing. All of this happened in a matter of seconds, but to Dean it had been painfully too long. He wished he had made it down there faster. Hell, he was beating himself up for not just leaping off the ledge.

He checked for breathing and was shocked when his father started to cough all on his own and gurgle up black water. Dean helped him onto his side and let him retch, John's body starting to shake uncontrollably with the cold and heaving. When he was done, Dean gently placed him on his back, his hands guiding his father's head back onto the wet wood. He thought the moisture on his hands was from the water, but as he removed them from beneath his dad's head he found that they were covered in a more viscous liquid.

"God. Dad…" Dean started as he left John's side for a moment to grab his flashlight out of the water.

He returned quickly to asses his father's condition. It was making him apprehensive the lack of conversation passing between them now, and the desperate gasps coming from his father's lungs. His father was staring up at the ceiling blankly, his beard reddened at the corners of his mouth where a thin line of blood was trickling between his parted lips. His chest rose and fell at irregular intervals, and Dean could see now that blood was pooling from beneath his head.

"Shit! Oh, shit!" Dean cried, taking off his jacket and wadding it up behind his father's head. He looked around for something to press against the wound, and noted that the room was filling with water from broken piping above. There wasn't much that wasn't soaking wet, but he saw a sink down the hallway from them with towels hanging from a bar to dry. He grabbed one and carefully wrapped his father's head in it.

"Dad, look at me," Dean pleaded when he saw the glassed over look of John's eyes

John didn't answer at first, but then seemed to realize his son was with him and groaned out his name. "Dean…"

"Hey, can you move?" Dean asked. "Just tell me what to do, Dad."

"I can't….move…I...I got careless. Something pulled me down… from the hay loft…"

"Okay, I'm going to get help," Dean said as he checked his water logged cell phone, and knew it wasn't going to be much assistance. "You left your cell in the truck, right?"

"Sam…" John choked. He looked away from Dean and back up at the ceiling. His brow creased in agony. "I never meant… to push him away."

Dean listened to his father's lament and felt an uncontrollable despair wash over him. His father had taken the fight harder than he had let on earlier that evening. He was internalizing it, and Dean had no doubt in his mind that his father, the great John Winchester, had been taken down by this burden. He had let his guard down because he had been thinking about what he had said. He had been thinking about Sam, and not the hunt.

"You didn't push him away," Dean said, trying hard to keep his voice strong. "Dammit, Dad, Sam had to do this. We have to let him go! Now, did you leave your cell in the truck?"

"I didn't tell him the truth, Dean," John whispered. He wasn't really there with Dean. He wasn't really concerned about a cell phone. He was in pain, but it was mostly beneath the tough surface, at the very core of the man. "I never told him that…I was proud of him."

Dean looked down at the broken man before him and felt lost. His dad had never revealed this kind of openness to Dean. John had always been the strong one, the one who had a plan and iron clad resolve. He hadn't seen his father cry since that night…the night that spawned their hunting. It looked so foreign on him; the tears at the corners of his eyes.

"Tell him that, Dad," Dean said. "That's all Sam wants to hear."

He felt his father's clammy hand wrap around his, and he realized that he had to be the strong one now. Dean was going to have to be the pillar that the remnant of his family leaned on.

"Tell him for me…I wanted to drive him to school. I wanted to help him move in…and carry those damn boxes. I wanted to see him get his diploma…not in the mail like his high school one…on a platform in the whole robe get-up…"

Dean tightened his grip on his father's hand and swallowed hard the lump at the back of his throat. He had to go get help, he had to leave him. But the man he had looked to his whole life was lying there, dying, and he couldn't do a damn thing but listen to him.

"Stop talking like you aren't going to see all that," Dean found himself shouting. "Just hold on, alright. When I get back you better still be here, you understand me!"

He went to stand up, but his father tightened his grip on his wrist and kept Dean from going anywhere. "Sulfur…" he breathed.

"I know," Dean responded. "I'll be careful."

John loosened his grip on Dean's hand and went back to his absent stare. He was starting to shake badly and the water from below the landing was crawling up into the hallway and surrounding him. Dean knew he had to move him, but he had no idea the kind of damage that had been dealt to his body. For the first time in a long time, Dean felt like a child. Daddy was hurt, and daddy wasn't going to be any help.

Dean squeezed his dad's hand, hoping it would give him the assurance that everything would be okay. He didn't want to leave his side. He couldn't help the thought that this was it. His dad was going to die, and if he left him alone…he wouldn't get the chance to say goodbye.

"Sammy…"

Dean recoiled in his soul. _Sam_ was the one at the bus stop leaving for school. _Sam _was the one who had told Dean that his genuine words had been bullshit. _Sam_ was the one that _wasn't_ there, holding the hand of their dying father. Dean was the one sitting there in the cold dark, not Sam. It hurt to hear his father calling out for the one son that wasn't there, and not him.

Dean watched his father's eyes flutter in the fight against their fatigue, and he felt a fresh anger rise in him. It wasn't going to end here. Not like this. Not before John had seen the end to his search for resolution. Not before John got to tell Sam the truth. Dean released his father's hand and forced himself to leave.

_Be here when I get back_

_

* * *

_

Sam's initial reaction was to duck down at the sight of the officer; however, he stopped himself, realizing that would look obnoxiously suspicious. Instead he just sat there, like it was his car and he was waiting for someone inside the bar. He hoped that the whole young look wouldn't play a huge factor in the man's curiosity.

Unfortunately for Sam, it played the only factor in the man's curiosity. He took the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, the smoke curling from his lips, and started to walk toward Sam.

_Wonderful_

Sam pushed the wires back out of sight and didn't make eye contact. He thought over the many ways Dean would talk his way out of this one, the many different stories he could tell. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn't pull any of them off. Lying to people had always made him nervous. He couldn't flash the confident smiles like Dean and live like he'd been someone else entirely his whole life.

He risked a glance when it seemed like an eternity had gone by before the man had spotted him. He was pleasantly surprised to see that someone else had taken up the officer's interest. A man with two beers in each hand was singing and moving without full control of his motor functions toward the road. The officer was now preoccupied and heading toward the one man circus performance that was about to walk into the middle of the street.

Sam used the distraction to fumble with the wires some more. When the engine turned over he felt relief and a sense of accomplishment. The latter made him wonder if he was alright upstairs.

The drive was a long one. He knew he had already lost a lot of time. However, he was determined to make up for that by pushing the old vehicle as fast as he could. He looked again at his cell phone a few times for messages and redialed both his father and brother. Every time he couldn't get through, and every time he had to fight back any new panic that would surface.

The panic wasn't the only thing he found himself fighting off. Sam had also been increasingly aware of a dull pressure in his head. Ever since the bus stop and the phone call, his head had felt somewhat fuzzy and full. It was a swollen heaviness and he had experienced something of a lesser degree like it before. Headaches were commonalities to him. Simple changes in the weather caused them. However, this felt different to him; this felt like it could grow into something more than what a simple Advil could handle.

The passing cars weren't helping much. The bright lights were causing the pressure to pulsate faster and more painfully. It was a great relief when he finally made it to a quiet side road, a few miles from the ranch. It meant that he was almost there, and that he was now on a road that saw very little traffic. He hoped the lack of irritating headlights would help dull down the waves of prickling weight behind his eyes.

It wasn't the case, however. It wasn't the passing car headlights that triggered the pain anymore. Now everything made it feel like his brain was being constricted by his own blood vessels. The lights from his own car, the blurred motion of the trees passing by, the hum of the engine; all were starting to cause unbearable pain.

Sam was about to pull over to close his eyes for a second, but, as if in response to that thought, the car started to die. The engine sputtered and choked, causing the car to lurch a few times before becoming sluggish and slowing. Sam cursed as he was forced to find the side of the road. The older cars were the easiest to hotwire, which was why Sam had chosen the car he had. They were also the more likely to crap out at the most inconvenient times. At that moment Sam didn't feel like it was merely an inconvenience; it was a damn cosmic joke.

Sam opened the hood and started to poke around for the problem. All he had was the dim beam of an almost battery dead flashlight he had found under the back seat, and squinting was only making his head hurt more. As he leaned in for a closer look, the headache finally took him.

His frontal lobe exploded in white hot spasms. The pain was unimaginable and piercing, like every vessel in his skull was rupturing. He braced himself against the car with one hand, tears streaming down his face as his brain was being crushed with more and more pressure.

White sparks danced in front of his eyes before fading to black. Sam was aware that he was still standing there, still agonizing against the side of the car, but he was blind. His eyes were open, but they were met with nothing. He couldn't see the outlines of the trees, or the car.

His hand that had been gripping the side of the car was suddenly grasping at nothing but the air and he fell forward. He put out both hands and waited to feel the abrasive dirt rip through his palms. Instead, he was shocked as his hands plummeted wrist deep into frigid water.

In his shock and blindness he fumbled around, feeling for something to hold onto and pull himself up with. His fingers met with air and water and nothing much else. Sam could feel the wood beneath him and wondered how he had managed to move from the street to a wooden floored room filling with water.

Sam's eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and as his sightlessness started to melt away he could make out fuzzy images and shapes. Sam crawled along the floor, and stopped when his hands finally touched something in front of him. His hand drew back immediately as he registered what it was he had touched. Flesh. Cold and wet flesh.

Somewhere, someone turned on a light, and the room was illuminated. Sam's breath caught in his chest as his eyes connected with the eyes of his father who was lying in the water dyed red by his own blood. His sightless eyes were staring straight into Sam, like he had been waiting for him, and had expected him to come. They were unblinking, unmoving, unloving. Dead.

Sam went to pick him up, to get his head out of the water, to do something other than stare back. He lifted up his head from the bloody water and brought his face inches from his. He prayed for him to move, to say something, and brushed away the wet strands of hair from his face.

Sam started crying. His mind was numb and tired with trying to reason his surroundings. He didn't know or care how he had gotten there. The only thing he could think about was the man in his arms and all the things he had said to him before. All the things he was never going to be able to say to him now. He wept uncontrollably, holding his father and rocking back and forth in the water.

"Sammy."

The familiar voice brought hope. Sam looked down at his dad and saw that he was looking up at him. Something was wrong, however. His eyes weren't filled with love or concern. They were indifferent to his son's tears.

"I didn't raise you to cry," John said coldly. He then grabbed Sam by the throat and pushed him down under the water in one quick movement.

Sam didn't know how the water had gotten so deep, so fast, but he was fully submerged and unable to escape his father. The man was putting all his weight into holding him down, and Sam was trying hard to push him off, his fingers clawing into the hands encircling his neck.

All Sam's efforts to free himself were fruitless and he found it hard to resist the urge to open his mouth and hungrily seek oxygen. He finally just gave up and breathed in the water while his larynx was slowly crushed by his own father. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this wasn't real, that he had to be dreaming, but he was tired of fighting with his dad. He was just going to let John win this one.

* * *

Dean pulled himself back up into the barn and sat at the edge of the gap to gather himself. Between screaming and crying, he had to find a solid middle ground to function on. He knew that he needed to get to the car and call for help. If that wasn't going to work he'd have to find a way to get his dad out of the lower levels before they filled with water. Maybe if he could find a few planks of wood, a pulley… 

A shift in the shadows to his left made Dean remember his initial problem. Whatever it was that had led him to the barn, it was there with him now, and still playing games. He had never fought a demon before, but he knew that certain weapons could be used to weaken it. Dean got up slowly from the edge and looked around for where he had sat his shotgun. It was leaning up against the tractor, not two feet from him, but he didn't want to make any sudden movements.

Something whistled past his head and embedded deeply in the machinery behind him. Dean turned and looked at a nail the size of a railroad spike sticking out, centimeters from where he had been standing.

Dean followed the trajectory path back to its source and saw someone standing underneath the hayloft. It looked like the silhouette of a man and he was leaning casually against one of the support beams. Other than his outline, Dean couldn't make out any other feature about him.

The building trembled slightly, casting dust from the rafters above. Dean clenched his fists and waited for an opportunity to present itself for him to grab up the shotgun. The other presence in the room didn't seem like it was going to budge from its post.

"You did this to my father, didn't you, you son of a bitch!" Dean yelled

The figure pushed off of the pillar and stood there, mocking Dean with its silence. The building shuddered again and this time two more spikes shot past Dean. He noted that they were coming from the support beam that was next to the being. He had seen hundreds of them jutting out from the wood before, being used as hanging pegs for barn supplies.

Dean didn't flinch, when a few more headed his way, calling the things bluff. However, as the floor began to tremble, he started to reassess his stare down strategy.

The wood beams beneath his feet suddenly gave way, and Dean jumped to his side to avoid falling, rolling to a stop next to the shot gun. He quickly scraped it up, turned and fired a shot toward his assailant. The figure stumbled backward as the salt spray caught it in one shoulder, but it recovered as if nothing had happened.

Dean could hear the ping of several of the spikes being ripped from the beam and knew they were about to be heading in his direction. He fired one more shot and the quickly jumped behind some bails of hay and crates as the onslaught of wood spikes slammed into the side of the improvised barricade.

Lying on his back behind the barrier, he emptied the used shells and fished in his jacket for more rounds. Once they were loaded, he jumped to his feet and aimed back at the creature. He was confused when it was just standing there, like it was waiting for him to go ahead and fire another round.

He shot once more, watching the figure crumble backward again against the force of the impact. Then he leapt the barrier and ran towards it, firing another round while it was still doubled over. It held out a hand and the shotgun was snatched effortlessly from Dean's fingers, but Dean continued to move forward.

The thing ripped some spikes from the beam with its own hands and took a swing at Dean, but Dean ducked and pulled a knife from his boot which he thrust upward into its torso. He felt it slide through flesh and bone and felt blood run down over his hands before he tore out the knife and watched the faceless man fall to his knees.

It started to laugh. While it knelt there, still covered in shadow, Dean was surprised to hear it laughing…at him.

"My turn," it sneered.

Dean suddenly found himself flying back through the air, his body slamming violently into a wall. All that he could let out was a muted grunt as the air was forced from his lungs on impact. He tried to breathe in, but he realized it was like sucking air through a straw as pressure continued to lay into his chest.

Something was biting at his wrists. The searing pain that was running straight through them was unlike anything he had ever felt before and he tried to pull them into his chest. Something was holding them back and keeping them against the wall. He could feel his own blood now, warm and wet, running down his arms. He finally gathered the strength to move his head against the force and look at what was eating at his writs. One of the spikes was in each one, pinning his arms out to the side like he was on a cross.

He gritted his teeth and stifled any screams that tried to escape past his lips. He wouldn't give the demon the pleasure of hearing his pain. He tried to cuss the thing out, but his lungs were still burning for air. He was blacking out, and as hard as he was trying to keep conscious, the lure of not having to feel anything if he gave in was highly persuasive.

* * *

A/N: I can't help but feel this is absolute crap, and it was so hard to be this mean to the guys. Please leave a review on your way out, and thanks again to all of you who do review. It gets the updates done faster. 


	4. Favorite Son

Chapter 4: Favorite Son

The metallic taste in his mouth created a paradoxical joy in Sam. The fact that he could taste anything at all struck him as a miraculous feat. It meant that he wasn't dead. At the same time the taste was bitter, salty and definitely his own blood. He went to move his head and felt jagged bits of soil and dirt dig into his cheek. Slowly but surely he was coming back to himself, but the awakening wasn't a pleasant one.

He managed to sit up and lean back against the car. His head was still throbbing, but it wasn't because of the headache. As he reached up and felt tenderly about the cut in his forehead, he could tell that he had cracked it against something pretty hard. His guess was that the car had "cushioned" his fall.

Memories of the dream and the migraine came to him in rapid fire. He remembered the way his father had looked at him, the pain he had felt when he'd thought his father was dead. Everything had felt impossibly real, and that scared him. If he had known what a vision looked like, he would have sworn that was exactly what he had just had. It had been more than a vision in the end; it had been twisted and nightmarish. He'd somehow known the whole time that his father had been holding him under the water that it wasn't him. There had been something darker behind his eyes.

Sam got to his feet, using the side of the car to support his weak legs. The nightmare had been so real that his body even felt the after effects of the trauma. Despite the lack of strength he knew he had to get to his family. His heart was breaking with each memory of how his father had been lying there in his own blood. God, how he prayed that it had just been a freak nightmare, something caused by his exhaustion and worry. But at his core, he knew it was more than that.

The car was non-responsive. The batteries in the flashlight were completely gone. The only option for Sam now was to run the last few miles up the road. He willed his body to move and prayed that he wasn't too late.

* * *

Dean awoke to the sound of someone humming. The tune was familiar, haunting, but he was having trouble placing the song. None of what was going through his head made sense at that moment. He was still trying to orient himself and pull back the curtain of fuzziness at the edge of his mind.

The rich and pungent aroma of farmland brought him back to his senses. Everything that had happened suddenly overwhelmed him. Everything except why he was groggy and unable to push the hummed tune from his brain. He knew his father was somewhere, hurt, and that he needed help.

He moved too quickly and remembered a few details too late. His wrists caught on the spikes that held him up. They had long since gone numb against the weight of his buckled body, but the fresh movement brought fresh pain and he cried out.

The humming stopped. The mysterious and familiar song ceased, and Dean didn't care much for the silence that replaced it. It was too quiet. His maladjusted eyes couldn't make out anyone in the room. It was the noise that let him know at least in what direction the person had been.

He didn't care very much for the voice that followed, either. The humming had been feminine, peaceful, and soothing; it had been like something from his dreams. But the new sound sent tendrils of chills through him. The voice was like nails on a chalk board.

"Take it easy, champ," It said. "Wouldn't want you to be too uncomfortable."

Dean could now make out the demon's shape from before. It looked like any man's shadow. It sat across from him on a bale of hay. He wanted so badly to know what it looked like, to put a face with the many voices.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean croaked.

"I'm no one and every one at the same time," It answered.

"I take it you aren't old man Montgomery," Dean prodded, trying to buy time and think of a way out of there. Nothing was coming immediately to mind. His vision was limited too by the fact that he had to stand perfectly still to avoid ripping open his wounds any further. It made it difficult for him to look for methods of escape.

"You're a perceptive one," It scoffed. "Mimicry for the sake of screwing with people is a trade of my kind."

"Good for you," Dean spat. "Now how about letting me down from these things and trying a hand at an actual fight, you coward."

"I gave you a few shots and a knife stab. You had more than adequate time to execute the necessary actions for my demise. _You_ just failed to perform."

The creature moved from the shadows and Dean was surprised to be looking at the picture perfect image of Steve Montgomery; everything from the unshaved face and steel cold eyes, to the beer gut protruding from under his plaid shirt. Dean had seen pictures of the guy from the obituaries, and some that Mrs. Montgomery had kept to avoid suspicion during the investigation of his 'accident.' He looked like a mean son of gun; a man worn both by the field and the bottle.

"Impressive," Dean replied sardonically to the transformation. "Now do Jim Morrison. No wait…Chuck Norris. I'd love to wipe the floor with his punk ass."

The creature laughed dryly and tapped a pack of cigarettes on his sleeve. "My you are an optimist." It then started to hum again, that tune that had Dean miffed by its proverbial nature.

"That song…" Dean started to ask.

"Oh that," It grinned, then continued in a sarcastic tone, "Your momma used to sing that to you. Put you right to sleep. Drove the ghosts straight from the darkness."

The thing's words burned at Dean's heart. He faintly remembered that song, how beautiful it had sounded coming from her mouth. The way she had smiled and smoothed his hair while soothing him through her voice. It was something he had long forgotten about. It felt like too many miles in the past. Like another life entirely.

The way the creature hummed the song so flippantly made Dean want to kill it many times over. He wanted to smash its face in, whatever face it had, he didn't give a shit. Just as long as the sound stopped coming from it. As long as the memory he had of the song wasn't tainted by its perverse lips.

"You use to sing it to Sammy too. Didn't ya?" The creature adorning Steve's face asked. "Long before you forgot it, you use to help your brother sleep with the same melody."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean screamed. "Stop talking about my family!"

"Dean Winchester. Watch your mouth," the demon spoke with a new voice. His mother's voice. Steve's face and fat form melted away to her soft eyes and slender figure.

Dean's heart bled at the sight of her. He looked away and told himself that it wasn't her, that it wasn't the woman he loved and missed. "Take her face off," Dean couldn't keep the pleading from his voice.

"Or what, you worthless piece of flesh?" she asked. "You'll cry?"

"I'm going to kill you," Dean promised through gritted teeth, blinking back tears of rage and pain.

"Highly unlikely," Mary's voice taunted. "You're such a waste. Not like your brother Sam. Why can't you be more like him?" The creature got closer, inches from Dean's face. "You'll never amount to anything. You know that?"

Dean snapped his head back to face the demon. His eyes filled with a deep loathing that only made the thing smile wider. "Stop shitting me and show me your true form," he breathed with nostrils flaring and body shaking.

Mary screamed. It was a heart stopping, pain filled scream that scarred Dean's soul. She then burst into flames, so close to Dean's face that he thought for sure the flesh would fall from his bones in seared chunks. The creature backed away and the fire swirled around it until it died off, leaving only the pitiful looking Steve behind.

"Sorry about that," It smiled, noticing the way Dean was having trouble catching his breath from the initial shock. "I can get a tad bit theatrical. Besides, you couldn't handle my true form."

Dean pulled at his restraints and screamed in frustration as his body couldn't overcome the pain long enough to free himself. "Who are you?" He asked again, bewildered and starting to lose hope. His father had been down below too long. Sam wasn't there. No one was coming for them. No one even knew they were out there. He had to gather every ounce of strength from within not to give into the despair of his situation.

"We're not so different, you and I," The demon said, settling back down on the bale of hay. He was once again avoiding Dean's question. "We both have father's that play favorites. We're both mere side shows to the main event that is Sam Winchester."

Dean looked disgusted that the being would even put the two of them on the same page. He was nothing like it, and he definitely didn't want it to be talking to him like it knew him. The problem was, in the past few minutes, the thing had proved it knew a thing or two about his family and him. It knew how to push all the right buttons and it knew how to crawl under his skin. "What are you talking about?"

"I believe you know my father," the thing said matter-of-factly.

Dean felt the thing pressing its presence into his mind. The complete alienation threw him off and he was startled by the way the images filtered past his eyes like he was watching a television screen. He could see his old house burning. His mother's mouth stood agape in a silent scream as she combusted on the ceiling. He could see himself as a kid, holding Sammy on the front lawn. His eyes were wide with fear and incomplete understanding of what was happening. It wasn't just the images of that night either; it was the emotions that went with it. He felt deep, hidden wounds reopen. All the bitterness and anger and pure anguish of that night welled up through the cracks of the barriers he had put up his entire life.

He snapped back into the barn and his eyes focused again on the deranged farmer who was dragging on a cigarette. He was trying hard not to let everything he was experiencing show on his face. The sadness. The rage. The realization. "Your father…"

"Killed your mother," the creature put it bluntly. "Burned her like a pig on a spit."

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy tearing you apart," Dean seethed.

The creature put down his cigarette and shook his head. "Come now. You want to kill me? Pull yourself off those spikes and give it another go," It taunted.

"If my father…" Dean started.

"If your father hadn't been thinking about Sammy, then he probably would have put up a good fight." It grinned with Steve's beer rotted teeth. "I know that's not what you were going to say, but you were thinking it."

He got up from the hay bale and waltzed over to the side of the hole in the floor. He looked over and shook his head. "'Bout full of water down there. Hope he can swim."

"Sam will kill you if I don't get the chance," Dean said with conviction. He knew his brother would come through if…well, he didn't want to think along those lines.

"Samuel…good old Sam," the demon nodded. "Our common plight. You know, I left the boy a calling card. All five victims had a message for him. He just didn't want to see it. He was so sick of your ass that he didn't care if a minor overlook cost you and your father a thing."

"You don't know him," Dean said angrily. "You don't know a damn thing about my brother!"

"On the contrary," the thing hissed. "I know so much about the boy, that I want to claw my eyes out every time I hear his name."

"Do us all a favor…" Dean added smartly.

It smirked and then, just as it had before with Mary, it took on the face of Sam. But Sam was older, about Dean's age, and all clad in black. "This is the age Sam would have been when my father rectified his mistake."

"Black really isn't his color," Dean tried to joke at the sight of his brother. On the inside he was praying for it to change back to Steve. It was unnatural to see Sam like that. His eyes were so darkened by hate. The age thing was also hard for Dean to wrap his head around. He couldn't stand the cigarette that the demon put to his brother's lips and took in long drags of.

"My father screwed up that night. He kind of missed out on a real opportunity. An amazing power. Your family was more than he bargained for." It noted the confused expression in Dean's eyes. "Your brother. He's _specia_l. Inside him lies dormant a power that my father craves, needs, and obsesses over. When your mother got in the way, my father was driven into dormancy. A self induced coma of sorts, caused by his inability to get over the one that got away."

Dean wasn't quite sure if he should believe what he was hearing. All the talk about Sam being wanted by the demon who had destroyed his family spurred on his already deep hatred for the thing wearing his brother's face.

"Why should I believe a thing you're telling me?"

"Why not?"

It posed a good question.

"You know, your father obsesses over Sam too…just like mine. I mean, you were down there with him and all he could talk about was that freak."

"My father loves Sam," Dean said. "He was regretting…"

"Not having Sam there beside him," It finished for him. "He loves Sam and uses you."

Dean shook his head in denial. These things lied. They lied as easily as people breathed oxygen. They knew people, because they could see hurt, pain, and despair. It was just playing with him, and he knew he couldn't give it any space in his head. He knew it was all false, but then why did it hurt so much?

"Don't project your own pathetic existence onto me," Dean snapped back. He then laughed lightly to himself. "Still can't wrap my head around how you things have 'families.' You don't know what family is."

"And you do?" It asked. "You don't exactly have a Norman Rockwell picturesque existence either, now do you?"

"I would really appreciate you shoving the psychoanalysis," Dean retorted.

"My father thinks nothing of sacrificing his followers for Sam," the creature continued, undaunted. "For the end game. Kind of like your father. I've been watching your family for quite some time. I remember when you were nine. Didn't you almost let little Sammy die at the hands of a shtriga?"

"Stop," Dean pleaded. The sound of Sam's voice talking to him in that manner, that condescending tone, was driving him crazy. Not to mention the thing was in his head now. As much as Dean wanted to deny it had any affect on him at all, the truth was that it did. When it talked about the past it not only returned Dean's memories, but all the emotional baggage that went with it.

"Oh, and at age eleven. You two fell from a bad bridge over a river…you saved him, but you were in so much trouble for taking him out there when he had a minor cold. That turned into pneumonia, right? Daddy didn't seem to care that you went in as well. He just coddled your brother all night long."

"Stop!" Dean said again, pressing his eyes shut and wishing he could somehow stab himself in the ears.

"And at fifteen…"

"I said shut up!" Dean screamed. "He's my brother…I…"

"And where is he now?" It asked. "I told you I left him a clear as day sign. He _chose_ to ignore it. He wanted out. He doesn't love you like you love him."

"You don't know him…" Dean said again.

"So you keep telling me," It growled. "I'm going to merge with him. Take away the opportunity that my father has wanted so desperately to have. Become what my father missed out on becoming. Then I _will_ know Sam Winchester."

"He's not just some push over," Dean defended his brother. "You want to possess him, then you better be one tough son of bitch. Even then, I know my brother will rip you apart."

"It's really endearing, this faith you have in him. Even though he's left you here."

"Dammit, why are you still talking? Just get it over with. Kill me," Dean snapped. He was done talking, done thinking, done listening to the lies.

"He should be easy to turn. Your brother is so myopic, so self absorbed, that he won't waste time in forgetting you. In forgetting his family and his life. I'm going to erase you from his memory." The demon leaned in closer to Dean and whispered in his ear. "Besides, I can't kill you yet. You're a well spring of inner turmoil that is just asking to be fed off of."

"Dean!"

The real Sam's voice was the most beautiful thing to Dean's ears. It was distant and coming from up the road. Dean knew his brother had figured it out, and he had never felt more proud. The demon was momentarily stunned to hear it, and Dean used that to his advantage. He threw his head forward with as much force as he could put into it. Their skulls connected and the demon fell backward, aghast by the sudden attack.

Dean's cocky confidence returned to him as he saw the thing scrambling to get up from the floor.

"Guess you really don't know my brother."

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all of you that review! I also want to thank Eyelyo for her awesome beta talents. Please leave a review on your way out. 


	5. Mental Breakdown

Chapter 5: Mental Breakdown

Both the Impala and his father's truck loomed as silent vigils at the gate. Their abandoned nature caused Sam to stop for a brief moment to look for any clues as to his family's whereabouts. He also wanted to grab a weapon. There was no telling at that moment what he was up against, and he didn't want to run into the situation half-assed.

He jostled the handle of Dean's car and was disappointed that his brother had locked it. Dean always was a bit OCD when it came to his beauty. That night it would have been great for him to have dropped the habitual ritual. Especially since they were in the middle of nowhere.

Sam crawled around the Impala and moved toward the truck's driver side door. The pop and give of the door opening as he lifted the handle was an embodiment of pure luck. At least one thing was going in his favor that night. He quickly found the extra set of keys his father kept hidden in the cab and went immediately to the weapon's trunk in the bed.

Still recovering from his unavoidable midnight sprint, he leaned against the tailgate of the truck. As he rested there, a powdery substance came off on his fingers from the hatch. He rubbed them together in the moonlight, trying to make out what he was sifting apart. Taking a highly analytical approach to the identification, he smelled it and immediately regretted his decision. Hydrogen sulfide had a nasty way of stinging the nostrils.

Sam quickly unlocked the weapon trunk and started to leaf through the arsenal. Sulfurous smell and residue meant he was dealing with a demon. That was textbook. The question was what kind and how powerful? The images of the women it had killed and the nightmare he'd had were enough to convince Sam that he had better be careful. The thing wasn't playing around and it was out for him. Loading another salt shell shotgun, and stuffing his jacket pockets with whatever blessed and holy items he could, he started his sprint up the driveway.

There were many buildings on the Montgomery property. Each one was without light, sign of life, or sound. Unable to fight back any trepidation that the silence brought, he did the only thing he could think of; call out and see if anyone answered.

"Dean!"

* * *

Dean watched the demon shrug off his momentary weakness. It pressed at the tender region of its forehead, and then cracked its neck. The snapping sound of bones resetting, and the emotionless look on its face, spoke volumes that it was unabashed. With a nod to Dean, it stepped back into the shadows and disappeared. 

"Sam!" Dean called out, and was immediately amazed that he had any volume behind his tired lungs. He didn't know how exactly he had imagined hearing his brother's voice was a good thing. Yes, it meant that someone not floating unconscious in a makeshift indoor swimming pool or hanging from their wrists was around to do something. It also meant that the thing was getting what it wanted. Dean guessed he had needed so badly to prove the thing wrong about his brother, that he had envisioned in his head something more heroic and dye hard. He'd hoped for a Sam that would come through the barn doors in a blaze of gunfire. However, Sam was probably going to just walk in and the demon would be waiting for the most opportune moment.

"Sam! Stay the hell away from…" Dean ordered, but he stopped suddenly as his heart constricted in his chest, like someone's fingers were wrapped around it.

"Shhh," the demon hissed in his ears. Dean could feel its presence behind him, like it was reaching straight through the barn wall and into his chest. "Let him come. I'm curious as to how your brother will rip me apart."

Dean struggled to scream out another warning to his brother, but the crushing pressure was spreading throughout his chest and compressing his lungs. Any attempt came out as a pathetic wheeze. It didn't matter in the end anyway. The damage had been done. Sam had heard him call out his name and not the warning. The doors to the barn flew open and his brother stumbled in.

Dean was the first thing to meet Sam's eyes. In the moonlight he could see his brother writhing against his crude restraints. His blood looked black in the pale light and webbed down his arms in streams from their source: his gnarled wrists. Dean kept shaking his head, like he wanted to tell Sam something. He didn't get the chance to as his head fell forward onto his chest and his knees buckled. Sam ran forward and grabbed him around his torso, keeping his weight off the spikes, attempting to stop them from ripping any more flesh from his wrists.

"Dean," Sam called, hoping to get a response from him. Of all the things he had imagined being behind the barn doors, his brother's crucified form wasn't one of them. Sam let go of Dean's body with one hand and reached up to remove the spike with the other. It was deeply embedded in the wall and took him a while to even get it to budge. The edges were sharp and slick with blood, which made the task even harder.

The spike in Dean's left wrist finally broke away from the wood and Dean's head snapped back up as he sucked in air. The pain had been a wake up call, and had flung Dean back into responsiveness. Sam had no doubt that it stung like a bitch, but he was glad to see his brother conscious. It eliminated his initial fear that his brother would never breathe again.

"Son of a…" Dean wheezed. He felt Sam go for his other wrist and clumsily put his hand on his brother's to try to stop him. "Get out of here."

"What? Why?" Sam shook his head in defiance. "I'm not just going to leave you here like this. Are you crazy?"

"It knows you're here," Dean tried to reason with his brother.

"A demon, right?" Sam asked as he continued to twist at the right spike. Dean keep tensing up in pain as the metal grated against bone. Seeing his brother like this made Sam want to do the same thing to the demon.

"It more than that, Sam." Dean's breath fell hot on Sam's neck as he leaned into his brother to keep from falling. "Eleven, two, eighty-three."

Sam froze at those numbers. He wanted to look at his brother's eye for any more clues, but knew what those numbers meant. Sam knew the weight behind them. He shifted his weight carefully so not to jostle Dean. His heart picked up a few more beats, and he tried to work faster at freeing his brother. "Then, I'm definitely not leaving without you."

Dean knew he wasn't going to get Sam out of there with him being as stubborn as he could be. A part of Dean was grateful, however, that Sam was standing there. They could get out of this whole mess. The demon was lurking somewhere, but as long as Sam kept his head about him, then maybe they all stood a chance. He knew their dad didn't have much longer. The agony of waiting for Sam to free his wrist was embedded more deeply in getting everyone out safe and not so much in the pain. "Sam, stop. You need to get Dad. He's in bad shape. I'm fine."

"How bad?" Sam asked, trying hard not to remember the nightmare. It inevitably was the first thing that came to mind.

"I don't know, Sam. He fell through the floor. I'd say pretty bad. I was on my way to get him help when I was attacked. Just listen to me for once and go help him!"

Sam gave the spike one last hard pull and it tore free from both wood and bone. Dean fell forward as he tried to stand on his own, and Sam had to lower him to his knees. Dean let his whole body rest on Sam and waited for any scrap of strength to return to him.

"Why don't you ever do what you are told?" Dean asked.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I messed this up," Sam apologized while he knelt there, holding his brother.

"Yeah," Dean said coolly, his words slightly muffled in Sam's shirt. "Just don't let it happen again, alright?"

Sam laughed. It was a stressed laugh. The kind that only surfaced when one couldn't think of anything else to do. The kind of laugh that was at the boundary of screaming and crying, and was the only stable middle ground. He would never not be there for his family again. Not after this. He gently helped Dean lean back against the wall.

"Just rest here. I'll get Dad."

"Give me a second, I'll help," Dean offered.

Sam scoffed at that statement. His brother needed more than a second. A lot more. Dean was also going to need to have his wrists bandaged. Sam started to rip up the edges of his own shirt.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, watching his brother tear up a perfectly good Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt.

Sam took one of Dean's wrists and started to wrap up the oozing hole that was there. He was grateful that the wounds were slightly higher up the arm from the hands, and that the bleeding wasn't profuse. It could have been a lot worse. He could have had completely destroyed muscle tissue and veins. He could have bled out.

Dean watched his brother worry over the wounds. He couldn't stand being mothered by his brother. It made him feel weak. The problem was that at that moment he was weak. He'd passed out twice now. There was no denying that he needed the help. He wanted to protest, but in the end he let his brother help him. The pressure of the tightly wrapped cloth took away a bit of the pain.

The anxiety in Sam's eyes was unbearable. Dean didn't want him to be internalizing the situation. The demon had said that Sam had known about all this, and had chosen to ignore it. The demon was a rat bastard. Dean knew his brother would never intentionally put the family in danger.

"Eleven, two, huh?" Sam asked as he moved quickly, wrapping the wrist tight. It was disheartening to see fresh blood seep up through what he had already finished.

"A link. A demon that knows our demon," Dean responded. "The bitch is like some teenage brat whose daddy didn't hug him enough and took away the keys to the Porsche."

Sam raised a brief smile. His brother was hurt, but not in rare form. He finished up bandaging the wounds and then looked around the barn for something to use to help his father.

"There's a rope already by the hole," Dean grunted as he started to stand up. "If we can find something to pull him up with…"

Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder and forced him to sit down. "Dean, don't move. I'll get it."

More concern. Dean felt useless, but conceded to Sam's request.

Sam made his way to one of the tool benches at the far end of the barn. There, tucked under the loft was a wall of tractor parts and tools. Sam sorted through drawers and the surrounding area until he came across what he was searching for. A large pulley. One that would support his father's weight.

Sam then set up an apparatus that would make it easier for him to lift his father from the lower level. Using some leather straps and the rope, he fashioned a harness and tossed it down below. The other end of the rope was laced through the pulley, which he secured to the tractor. After completing all this, he was set to do the rescue on his own.

Sam leapt from the edge and plunged down through the filth filled waters. He surfaced immediately and found some footing. The water was up to his chest in depth and still rising. It was colder than he remembered from the dream, and he moved toward higher ground, trying to keep his muscles from stiffening.

The hallway that Dean had left John in was ankle deep in water. Sam found him much like he had in his dream. The flashlight illuminated the bright crimson water. His father was lying in his own blood. Sam had to fight back the images from his vision, just to be able to move. He found himself frozen to the end of the hallway, staring at his father.

_Move!_

Sam broke from his trance and ran to his father's side. He pressed his fingers into the soft tissue of John's neck and waited for a pulse. He found one. A faint one, but a push of blood against his flesh none the less.

Dean couldn't stand simply waiting there for someone to say something. He knelt beside the hole and listened intently for any hint that they were both okay. After a few minutes passed-an ungodly eternity- Dean readied himself to jump in after them.

"Sam, did you find him?" Dean asked.

"Yeah!" Sam responded. Dean could now see the beam of his flashlight below. "He's still alive Dean."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut in a silent prayer of thanks.

Sam tried to limit the motion of his father as he pulled him back into the deep water under the opening above. He kept his head afloat and made sure that the harness was secure under his father's arms. As they floated there, Sam felt his father stir.

"Sam." The voice was so weak and faint that he barely recognized it as his father's.

Sam looked down and saw John's eyes were open. Glassed over and non-responsive, but they were open.

"Dad, hey…" Sam started, slipping a hand into John's. "Just hold on a little longer."

"Sam…How's school been?" The question caught Sam like a bullet in the chest. "Are… your classes going well?"

Sam blinked back furiously at his own tears. His father wasn't making any sense. It wasn't a good sign, and he squeezed his father's hand tighter.

"Yeah," he choked. "They're going really well, Dad."

John seemed pleased at that and closed his eyes. "Good."

Sam started to pull up on the other end of the rope. It was slick and his father wasn't exactly a lightweight, but he was eventually able to lift the injured man from the waters. Sam had trouble looking at his dad's frail figure, hanging there like a twisted, macabre marionette. He focused on the opening above and on putting all his weight into pulling on the rope, instead.

Dean waited at the top and when he saw his father's head, he knelt down to help Sam. His brother did most of the work, but Dean made sure that John's head and shoulders didn't scrape against the rough, splintered edges of wood. In one last final tug from Sam, John's whole body came up over the edge and Dean worked as well as he could against the pain in his arms to get him completely away from the edge.

Down below there was a sudden chill to the air, and in that instant Sam knew their time was up. He searched the area with a careful gaze. There was something there with him. He could feel it. Sam pulled out a rosary from his pocket. He had no idea if it would even work if it came to using it, but he had no other option at this point. He held it in his hand as he treaded water. "Exorcizo te, creatura aquæ," Sam started to bless the water he was floating in. "in nomine Dei Patris…"

"Sammy."

Sam immediately recognized the voice from the phone call. He spun around to face the direction the sound had come from. There was nothing there, which sent all of his nerves on end. "…omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi, Filii ejus Domini nostri, et…"

Several whispers started to fill the air. All of them were calling his name mockingly. Sam forgot for a moment where he had been in the blessing and had to start over. He looked up and knew that his father had made it to the top. Dean would hopefully be able to get him off the harness so Sam could climb up.

"…in virtute Spiritus Sancti" Sam continued, feeling the cold seeping straight into him.

"Et cetera, et cetera," the demon interrupted from Sam's right. This time there was someone standing there. It had his father's face.

Sam had to look up to remind himself that his father had just been lifted out of there, unable to move. This version of his father was the one straight from his nightmare. It had the same malice filled, soulless eyes.

They stood there for a few seconds, staring each other down. Sam backed away slowly and continued to speak the Latin rite from memory. "Ut fias aqua exorcizata…"

"You think spouting Latin will get rid of me?" The demon seemed incensed and insulted by Sam's attempts to bless the water.

They started to circle each other in the water. Sam had nowhere to go while down there. There were no exits nearby, other than straight up. He continued to back away until his foot slipped on a slick piece of wood and he went under.

The demon was upon him in an instant. Under the water he could feel the hands slip around his neck and tighten. The demon lifted him up out of the water and above his head by the throat. He dangled him there, keeping his feet just barely above the ground.

"I can't stand you humans," the thing spat. "You were supposed to be just another puppet in this game. How does a weak piece of flesh such as yourself get to be the 'Chosen One'? "

Sam hadn't the slightest clue what the creature was talking about, and he didn't get a chance to ask before he was plummeted back under the water. He was held under long enough to feel the deep burning of air deprived lungs, then ripped back up to meet with the demon's ink black eyes.

"I'm going to kill them with your hands." It smiled. "I'm going to watch the life leave your brother's eyes as I rip the heart from his chest. You're going to get to see it all, because it's your destiny to be a killer."

"Sam!" Dean called down from above. "Where did you go?"

"De-" Sam started to scream out his brother's name, but the demon pushed him back under the water and held him there.

"I'm still here," the demon called back up with Sam's voice. "Send me back the rope."

Under the water, while Sam found himself drowning for the second time that night, he could hear the demon still talking to him.

_Keep struggling, Sammy. It sucks the oxygen from your blood faster. Makes my job a lot easier._

Sam calmed down at that, realizing it was right. He wasn't going to win against it like this. He had to remember where he'd left off in the Latin. Maybe it would be affective. Maybe the reason the thing kept his mind on other things was to avoid being cooked in a bath of Holy Water.

Just as he was about to remember the last words of the rite he felt the same headache from before return. The skull piercing shots of pain forced him to forget everything except the current torture. He started to struggle again, and inadvertently began to breathe in water in his panicked state.

Images shot before his eyes. Darkness and blood. There was so much blood, and it was all on his hands. He could see his brother looking at him in anguish and betrayal, holding his bloody abdomen and backing away from him like a wounded animal. He was saying Sam's name, but Sam at that moment felt no remorse, no sadness. It felt sickly satisfying to watch him die.

More people and images came to Sam. Each of them were dying by his hand. Each of them did not leave him feeling anything at the sight of their fear, nor did he care about their pleas for mercy.

_You are destined to kill._

Sam was suddenly back in the water, back struggling for his life. The visions had made him ill in retrospect. There was no way he was going to kill his own brother…all those people.

_I'm not a killer._

_You will be._

Sam choked, his chest shuddering against his water saturated lungs. He knew that in a few minutes he would be either dead or under the control of the demon that was showing him his "future." Or worse. Both. He would be damned if he didn't get to choose something for himself.

_What are you doing?_

The demon sensed something was amiss.

_If I go, we both go._

Sam mouthed the last words of the rite. "Ad effugandam omnem potestatem inimici."

The rosary slipped from his tired fingers.

* * *

Dean was exhausted from a simple act that would have taken him no time at all if it weren't for his wrists. Sam's bandages were already all the way soaked through, and he would need to stop the bleeding as soon as they got to the car. He looked down at his father while he caught his breath and thought he was looking straight into the face of death. Nothing, not the creeps they fought or the things they hunted, scared him as much as the thought of losing another member of his family. 

He slipped off the harness, the simple act sending his wrists into painful spasms. Dean hated that his injuries were slowing him up this immensely. He slipped the rope over the gear shift of the tractor and waited for Sam to climb up.

A shockwave rocked through the foundation of the barn and everything shuddered in response. Dean fell backward and made the mistake of bracing himself with his hands. The pain forced him to roll on the ground with his hands pressed into his chest.

_Stupid!_

"The hell…" Dean started, but didn't have much time to contemplate what was happening. The barn groaned loudly as the structure tilted from the disruption. The floorboards started cracking underneath the machinery and Dean knew their timetable had been dramatically shortened.

"Sam!" Dean shouted. "Get out! Now!"

A large beam in the roof split in two and crashed down through the floor near Dean and John. He had to move his father. Straining under the weight and pain, he managed to pick him up and throw him over his shoulder.

Outside, Dean set his father to the ground gently, then turned around to go back for Sam, but the building buckled suddenly. Dean watched in horror as the whole structure collapsed in on itself, sending up large clouds of dust and debris.

He went to run to the barn. He had to know his baby brother was okay. He didn't care if he had to pick through the rubble with his bare hands.

"Dean."

Startled, Dean stopped and looked over to his right. Sam was standing there, completely drenched in water. His long wet strands were plastered to his forehead, and his expression was void of any emotion. He looked exhausted.

"How…did you?" Dean pointed back to the barn. Something wasn't right at all. "Sam?"

"I don't know," Sam responded flatly. He looked down at his hands like there was something there to look at, then looked up at Dean despondently. "Don't give up on me."

Dean saw Sam's knees giving out. He ran to his brother and stopped him from falling. The weight on his arms hurt like hell, but he bore it so he could lower Sam to the ground.

"Sammy?" Dean shook his brother's shoulders and to wake him. The slow rising and falling of his chest was all that let Dean know he still had a brother. Why wasn't he responding? What had happened to him? The look on his face had been so haunted.

_Don't give up on me…_

Dean looked around for help. There would be none coming. He cradled his baby brother like he was the infant of years ago. He felt helpless again. Surrounded by a family that was quickly being taken from him. Dean did the only thing he could at that moment as despair pressed into him relentlessly; he screamed.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this took so long to post. Life has been really crazy. Thanks to all of you who review. I appreciate it so much. Thank you, Mady Bay, for being an awesome beta. You are a life saver. 


	6. Forced Strength

Chapter 6: Forced Strength

Dean woke to the sound of heart monitors and their slow, steady, counting off of his beats per minute. He was disoriented at first, his mind trying to sort through the eclectic collection of emotion and thoughts bombarding him all in the instant he was coming back to himself. Everything, from the tight pull of the IV needle to the overbearing brightness of the florescent lights above, was drawing him back from a fog. The mixture of antiseptic and latex drove through his nostrils and turned his stomach. He groaned and sat up, trying hard not to retch right there and then.

_Don't give up on me…_

Dean's heart rate kicked up a few notches, the machines picking up on his distress, as he remembered his brother. He could remember holding Sam's comatose form, and his father…

_Oh, God! What the hell happened?_

Dean looked down at his wrists and saw that they were bandaged. He clenched his fists and felt the tight pull of the sutures. The twinges of pain made him remember everything. The nightmarish events that had occurred had _not_ been a dream. How he swore to God that he wished everything had just been in his head, but he was staring down at two parting gifts of that night.

Dean started to pull out the IV in his arm. He wasn't going to just lie there. Not while he couldn't remember how he had gotten there. Definitely not while he hadn't a clue what had happened to his brother or father. He had to know they were alright. He had just finished removing the IV feed when the door to his room opened. He pulled the blankets up over his arm and pretended like he had just woken up.

"Mr. Page."

A woman in pale blue scrubs was standing there at the end of his bed. M.D was embroidered onto her scrubs pockets. Her eyes were dull with tiredness and her features were unreadable. Dean had almost corrected her on his name, and then stopped himself, remembering that he had a credit card under Jimmy Page. So he had checked himself in. At least he knew that much.

"You are looking much better," the woman stated. She looked at his monitor and started to jot down his vital signs.

"Where's my brother? My dad?" Dean asked point blank. He didn't want to sit through the torture of her forced pleasantries. Especially since she was fussing over him, and he was fine.

"I…I don't remember coming here," Dean admitted.

"Mr. Page, you came in last night. You brought in your brother and your father. You weren't very coherent and had lost a lot of blood. Actually, you were in hemorrhagic shock. Borderline hypovolemic. Your father was hypovolemic and hypothermic."

She stopped and watched him digest the information. He was looking down at his wrist and going over the information. He shook his head and wrinkled his brow.

"You really don't remember coming in, do you? If you…" she had started to ask something else.

He held up a hand to stop her. Dean didn't want to repeat himself. That was what he had said. What was up with all the technical jargon anyway? He didn't have M.D. sewn into his hospital gown.

"Just give it to me in plain English. Is he doing fine? My father?"

The woman shifted her weight and Dean read into that small movement a novel of meanings. She was preparing to give him "the news" and he found himself unable to breathe in the seconds leading up to her response.

"He's stable," she answered. "We were able to stop the internal bleeding. All scans show that there isn't any cranial hemorrhaging..."

Dean felt the overbearingly pregnant pause afterward was concealing the inevitable "but" that was to come. His father had been in bad shape. So much so that he had been plagued with the feeling from the moment he found him that the words they spoke to each other were going to be his last.

"But, your father is a coma, Mr. Page."

Dean swallowed hard and took in the news as slowly as he could. Letting it wash over him and break down into the pit of his stomach. Suddenly the antiseptic and latex smell was stronger, and his body was pushing up bile.

"Are we talking temporary or should I be signing consents and looking at options?"

It was cold sounding, but he was feeling cold, and trying to make sense out of his current reality was suffocating. It had come out angry and insensitive, but he wished the woman in front of him would just tell him the whole truth. Not spoon feed him small bits of information until he had the whole picture.

"Full recovery does not look good," the woman answered. "We've done everything that we could…"

Dean sank back into his bed, listening to the news and trying to dull down the sharpness of it by telling himself that there would be a solution. He needed to see for himself. He needed to be shown his father before he'd believe a word coming out of her mouth. Dean gripped the railing and thought about getting up and walking down there to his father's room, but reconsidered adding another step to his incomplete thoughts at the moment. First, he needed to talk to someone. He needed to talk to Sam.

"Does my brother know about this?" he asked.

The woman shook her head and bit her lip. More body language that didn't sit well with Dean. His brother had been in the flooding storage basement of a barn one minute, and the next he had somehow defied time itself and was standing outside of the collapsed structure. Dean knew that something had gone wrong, and he knew the demon was behind it. Sam had collapsed from exhaustion, but he hadn't been injured. The way his news bearer was holding herself, Dean would have thought that his brother had…

_Oh God…_

"No, your brother doesn't know about this. Your brother is…well, he's hard to describe, Mr. Page. His vitals are stable; there are no signs of trauma, occlusion, or tumor…"

Once again, Dean felt his stitches pull as he tightened his grip on his bedside bar. How hard was it to answer a simple question? He needed to know what the hell had happened to his little brother. He couldn't remember even coming there, which sounded testaments to his own condition, but what had happened to Sam?

"Once again, I need you to just give it to me straight!"

"He's non-responsive to stimuli," she finished.

"Like in a coma?" Dean asked.

"No," she sighed. It was not in frustration with him, but because she herself couldn't understand what was going on. "Like a catatonic state. He'll wake up now and again, but only for a few seconds. He asks for Dean. Mr. Page, do you know who he might be asking for?"

_Me, _Dean thought. The walls seemed closer than before, and he was finding the urge to empty whatever he had left in his stomach becoming stronger. He was getting dizzy now, and he needed some air. He needed her to leave. He needed to see them both. The remnants of his family were all being taken from him. How had he been able to get out of this in one piece? Why wasn't he more broken, like them? And Sam…what had happened to his brother?

"I need to see them," he said, starting to take down the railings.

"Mr. Page, I just need to ask you a few more questions." She moved in to stop him from moving and noticed he had already unhooked himself from the IV. "Mr. Page, you can't help them by running to their bedsides and hurting yourself in the process. We need to know what happened to them. Anything you remember…anything at all, will help us with a cure for your brother."

Dean stared at her, wanting to laugh and scream all at once. What was he supposed to tell her? The truth would have her calling the men in white coats. Anything fabricated was hard to come up with at that moment. All he wanted to do was get to his father and brother.

"I don't remember," he lied again. He wasn't going to tell her that they'd been hunting a demon. He needed her to move.

_Your brother. He's special…_

Medicine wasn't going to help his brother. Something else had a hold of him. Dean's stomach twisted repeatedly over the thought that the demon had done exactly as it had said it would. Dean couldn't be sure, unless he got to see Sam.

This brought him back to the same place of frustration: the bed railing and the dull eyed doctor.

"Anything you can think of? A family history perhaps?"

Dean didn't know many of their relatives, let alone their medical history. It was pointless to sift through lineage when he had a semblance of an idea of what was going on. It didn't involve anything that medicine could remedy.

"I already told you that I don't remember," Dean's agitated voice startled her back slightly. "I need to see them. Now. Either you get someone to take me or I'll walk myself."

She sighed dejectedly and looked at the clipboard and then back up at Dean.

"I'll go get someone to take you to see them. Don't move. If you think of anything at all, please…let me know."

Dean watched her leave and saw her meet up with two police officers right outside his door. He heard her ask them to wait a while longer and Dean shuffled nervously when one looked in his direction. As if there wasn't enough to deal with at that moment.

The door clicked into place, and the silence was all that would grace his ears. Dean was alone…in every sense of the word.

----------------------------------------------------------

Dean had been wheeled into Sam's room and left bedside. He had insisted that he could walk just as well, but his nurse-a mousy woman with a soft voice- had insisted upon using the chair. He'd eventually consented and given in to being wheeled around, only because he knew that it would mean getting to see his family faster. Protesting would have only lead to an onslaught of lectures on why he would need to use the chair.

Everyone was treating him like he was broken. As far as Dean knew, he was far from it. The frail form of his brother in front of him was what broken looked like.

It had been an impossible decision to choose between his brother and father, which one he wanted to see first. He had decided on Sam because he had hope that Sam would be responsive. The doctor had said that he had been asking for him. As for his father…Dean couldn't see him right then. Not yet. He was still having trouble believing that the bulwark of a man had been taken down. Even though he had seen firsthand the condition his father had been in, he was still waiting for him to come walking into the room and pull up a chair beside him.

Sam looked fragile. So much so, that Dean feared breathing too hard would break him. When he went to take his hand, it was slow and with great care. It reminded him of when Sam was a baby. Having been told to be careful, Dean had held his breath until his infant brother was secure in his four-year-old lap. Dean wondered why he was thinking about the beginning. People only thought about the beginning when they were thinking about the end. They were far from the end.

Dean thought about the fight that had occurred, and how Sam should have been on a bus. The argument seemed insignificant now, but Dean wondered what had caused Sam come back for them. He squeezed Sam's hand and waited patiently for him to wake up, wishing that Sam had just gotten on the bus and hadn't looked back.

Dean had been aware that during this past year, Sam had been secretly applying to colleges. Anytime they had been close to a college town or a mailbox, he had been picking up applications and slipping things into the mail. Dean had even found one of his applications sticking out of a duffel bag one night. The look on Sam's face when he had caught Dean reading it over had been both a mixture of anger and fear.

"Chill," Dean remembered saying, putting out a hand in defense. "I won't tell Dad. You're not serious, though…are you?"

It had been a dumb question. Of course Sam was serious. Dead serious. He had ripped the application from Dean's hand and had quickly hidden it away again.

"You wouldn't understand," he remembered Sam saying.

Like Dean didn't understand having dreams…If only Sam knew…Dean wanted nothing but happiness for him. He only wanted to be a part of his life.

"I should have driven you myself," Dean said. His voice sounded thin against the unwanted silence.

Sam's hand tightened around Dean's and Dean looked up at his brother's face. His eyes eagerly waited to see Sam's.

"Sam? Can you hear me?"

He had been wanting so badly to get a response from Sam, that when it had come, it had been too fast. It left him aching for more. For anything. However, not even Sam's eyes moved behind his closed lids, and the only movement came from his shallow breaths. It was all Dean was going to get from him.

"Sam," Dean started, his voice faltering and eyes starting to glass over. The last thing he needed to do was lose it. Not then, when he needed to be strong. He wasn't going to ask Sam to fight if he himself wasn't able to hold it together. "Sam, I'm going to figure this out. Stay strong, okay? I don't know what that son of a bitch did to you, but I swear to God I'll get him for you."

Dean sat back in his chair, hands pressed into his eyes. He had to think of who would be able to help him figure this out. With both his father and his brother in the condition they were in, Dean was alone. Their father had connections and contacts, someone who would know more about this than he did. The million dollar question was: who?

As he sat there with his eyes closed, going through his head the lists of people he'd met, he felt his chair shift underneath him. He fell forward and grabbed a hold of his brother's bed railing to prevent from falling into it.

"The hell?"

He looked down and saw that his chair was a few inches off the ground. As was the rest of the furniture in the room. Sam's ECG started to pick up a few beats, and then started a steady and fast climb. Dean watched with awe-stricken horror as everything around him had started to defy gravity. He looked up at the machine bleating out Sam's heart rate and saw that his heart was sky rocketing past 160 beats per minute. He didn't know how it was all related, but he had a feeling that the phenomenon before him was related to his brother's stress.

"Sam!"

Sam suddenly grabbed Dean's arm and sat bolt upright. He grabbed onto Dean's shirt and brought their faces together, close enough for Dean to hear his brother's voice over the alarms of the machines.

"Dean…please…"

His brother's voice was so scared, and his brown irises were filled with an agony that Dean had never seen before in his brother. Sam was terrified of something and Dean was willing to do whatever it was that his brother needed help with. He just needed to be told what to do.

"What? Just tell me how to help, Sam." The way the machines were blaring, Dean was sure that his brother's heart was going to rupture in his chest. Why hadn't anyone come in to check on them? He couldn't take his eyes off of his brother's face to look for an emergency button

"Dean…please, kill me."

The request hit him like a slap in the face and it took him a minute to register what exactly his brother had just asked of him.

"What? No, Sam…"

Everything in the room, without warning, came crashing back down to the ground. Dean's wheelchair hit the ground and rolled back out from under him. He pitched forward into the hard metal railing and hit his head before falling to the cold linoleum.

Dean tried to pick himself up off the ground, but his wrists cursed loudly at him in protest as he added weight to them. He rolled onto his side and started to get up when the nurse was suddenly at his side. She was asking him what had happened and if he was all right. He wanted her to check up on his brother, but she was already hoisting him back up and into the chair.

Dean looked past her at his brother and saw that he was gone again. He was lying there like nothing had happened and his heart rate had returned to normal. The nurse was looking around now at the disheveled furniture. She looked like she was about to question Dean about it, but decided against it after one look at him.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

_No_, Dean thought to himself. He barely managed to nod a yes, and when she tried to move him, he grabbed her wrist.

"Let me stay," he said.

"I can't do that," she said apologetically. "I need to get you back to your room." She moved to examine the fresh bump on Dean's head and he swatted her hand away. He didn't want anyone touching him.

For the second time that day he felt the tightening and queasy feeling, like his stomach was about to expel its contents after a punch to the gut. When he was back in his room, he waited until the nurse had left him before getting himself up again.

In the bathroom, the nausea returned and he hit the floor, grabbing the sides of the toilet and retching an empty stomach. His stitches pulled with each shudder and he held his wrists against his stomach to stop the sutures from going in every direction.

_Dean…Kill me…_

His stomach finished convulsing and he fell back against the bathroom wall. Gasping for breath and shaking with an inability to keep himself together, he was finally alone and able to let it all go. He wept uncontrollably, fist pressed against his mouth to stifle his cries and struggle for breath. He welcomed the taste of his own salt and didn't wipe at the foreign beads of liquid on his cheeks.

Dean was alone. Despite his earlier denial of the severity of his condition, there was no refuting the damage now. Dean was broken.

A/N: I'm sorry that took forever. Special thanks to Mady Bay and Eyelyo for editing. Reviews are always adored and usually help me from sitting at my computer for hours and refreshing the page and not seeing anything. Make a poor writer happy.


	7. Standing Alone

Chapter 7: Standing Alone

Dean, having resolved within himself that he would find a way to stop the rift forming between him and his family, had poured out the last of his fear and mourning on the cold floor of the hospital bathroom. Lying there, tears dried in sticky streaks down his face, he made a promise: That he would be strong.

His brother wasn't gone. His father wasn't gone. If he got up right this minute and did something about it, then there was hope. Their current conditions were temporary. As long as he continued to convince himself of that, then nothing could keep him there, curled up and resenting his position.

The more he thought about his tears, the more he cursed himself for his weakness. The more he thought about Sam, the more his anguish turned into rage and determination. Sam needed him. Feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to solve anything.

_Dean…Kill me, please…_

Dean shut his eyes against the request, pushing it from his mind. There was no way in hell he'd ever kill his brother. The fact that Sam had asked for him to, scared him shitless. It meant that he was in much more trouble than Dean had originally thought.

_Get up! _

Dean forced himself to stand, grabbing the edges of the sink to help him rise. He ignored the shit his wrists gave him over it, and stood there for a second, letting the pain subside.

A knock resounded through the bathroom door, and Dean tensed up. Wondering how long he'd been in there, he quickly ran his hands under the faucet and splashed water up into his hot and reddened face.

"Just a minute."

He opened the door a few seconds later and saw the mousy nurse from before standing there. She was wringing her fingers and looked like she might pass out from the sheer exhaustion of getting the strength to speak. She had to be new. That or he'd scared her earlier. Either way, she needed to just out with whatever she had to say at the moment.

"Yeah?" Dean asked, wiping some water away from his mouth.

"Are you alright?"

Dean sighed. "Yeah. All sunshine here, Sweetheart."

"I…I heard you…"

_Oh for God's sake! _Dean thought.

"I'm fine," he assured her, making his way slowly to the wheelchair from earlier. His wrists were bad, but he hadn't realized how sore he was from being thrown around the barn.

"I'm supposed to instruct you not to leave your bed…" she said meekly, like she feared he'd tear into her for that one.

"Whatever," Dean said, having a seat and allowing his tired body to sink into the chair. He was not in the mood to discuss what the institution thought would be best for him. "I'm ready to see my dad now."

"Um…"

"What?" Dean asked angrily. Was she seriously going to tell him that wasn't a possibility anymore? So he'd taken a spill out of his chair. It wasn't his fault. Not like he could give her the real reason why.

"There are some officers here to talk with you."

_Shit._

Dean had almost forgotten completely. They were there no doubt, because some crazed kid drug two unconscious family members into an ER. His family couldn't vouch for anything, so Dean probably had scared some of the staff into a phone call. Great. And his wrists. He hadn't thought about how wonderful those must look. What story was he going to come up with to assure them he hadn't tried to kill his family and himself before having a change of heart? That son of a bitch demon had set up quite a scenario for Dean to dig his way out of.

Before he could respond to the nurse, the door to his room opened and the two officers moved in, standing inches from each other. Dean wondered if two of them was really necessary, but knew better. He'd dealt with enough police "tag-teams" in the past. It was to intimidate him.

Dean smiled weakly and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at each of them in the face. "Officers. What can I help you gentlemen with?"

The closest one took a pad of paper and stood, pen poised. "We just have a few questions for you, Mr. Page."

"Alright," Dean said, getting comfortable.

They asked him questions about his personal and contact info. He was relieved they hadn't caught onto his credit card being fake, and even that was a matter of time. They continued on for a few minutes with questions not directly linked to what Dean knew they wanted to ask him, and then finally got down to it.

"We just need a statement on what happened to your father and brother. You came in around one in the morning? Is that right?"

Dean knew he should agree to move the process along faster. An "I don't remember," would only cause him to lose any credit when he gave his statement. The problem was, he didn't remember. However, he wasn't raised by John Winchester, bullshitter extraordinaire, for nothing.

"I believe so," Dean said.

"So, what happened?"

Dean leaned forward on the chair and looked at them both, trying hard to bite back any cocky response he'd wanted to give. As far as Dean was concerned, both of them could mind their own business. He wanted nothing more than to tell them that, but knew there was no one coming to bail his ass out if he messed this up.

"We…" Dean, for the first time in the longest time, and maybe ever, couldn't think of a single cover story. It was mostly due to the way his mind was working at that moment. He himself was curious as to how everything had gone down. How had he managed to get them both to the Impala? How had he managed to drive in his condition? Trying to cover up something he couldn't remember was only causing him more confusion. "…were helping someone with an infestation problem in their barn."

He mentally slapped himself after that, but that was the best he could come up with. And hey, it was partially true, wasn't it? The moment should have been marked down in history as the most honest Dean had ever been with the police.

"Who?" the officer with the notepad asked with raised brow. "And at that hour?"

"It wasn't the smartest idea…but she's a widow and recently lost her kid. We wanted to help. She's out of town, we told her we'd look at it while she was gone."

"I still need a name," the other spoke up. Dean started to label them dumb shit one and two in his mind.

DS one was tapping his notepad impatiently. Dean sighed. "Mrs. Montgomery,"

"Steve's wife?" DS two piped up.

Dean pointed at him to signal he'd hit the nail on the head and nodded. "The one and only."

"Shoot, so you went out to her barn?" DS one continued.

Dean was getting ill with the monotony, but choked back every urge to scream. "Yes," he repeated himself.

"At night?" DS two just wanted to confirm. "Boy, you didn't happen to have a fight with your father, now did you? Everything all right between you two?"

Boy? He had not just said that. Dean set his jaw and closed his eyes for a second. Let it slide or…

"Look, Sonny, Rico," Dean was unable to hold it back any longer. He was never very good with holding down his anger and sarcasm. He looked them both in the face, eyes filling with frustrated tears. Frustration that this was happening, and frustration at what they were implying. "My father is in a coma. God knows what happened to my brother! That piece of shit barn came down around us and I swear to God I don't know why we aren't all dead right now!"

"Now just calm down…"DS two started. He wasn't too pleased with Dean's nicknames for them. It was a good thing he didn't know what he'd been calling them to himself.

"Officer, either you put me under arrest or you leave me the hell alone. How dare you come in here, after what has happened to my family, my only family…" He choked up on the last part and as much as he wished he was acting this one out, he wasn't.

"I think we're done here," DS one said folding up his notepad. "We'll need an actual statement from Mrs. Montgomery. We're sorry to have bothered you Mr. Page. You have to understand that this is standard procedure for cases like your family's."

Dean wondered if he'd messed it up horribly. If by "we're done here," the officer wasn't meaning they'd leave him alone, but had enough to build a case against him. He swore under his breath after they had left the room and looked up at the ceiling. That hadn't been the smoothest action or concocted story of his career and he tried to shrug it off like he usually did…but he couldn't. He was of no use to any of them, Sam or his dad, if he was taken from the hospital. He needed to watch his mouth.

"Mr. Page?" the nurse had come back, and she'd been so quiet that he hadn't noticed. "Did you want to see your father now?"

----------------------------

At least the color had returned to his face. That was one of the first things that Dean had noticed after he'd been taken in to see his father. But everything else was wrong. Everything else didn't make sense to Dean. The machines, the tubing, the way his father looked smaller…None of that made any sense to him.

He stood up from his chair and stood at the railing of his father's bed, trying so hard to remember the promise he'd made to himself while face down on the linoleum. He couldn't lose it again, but it was so damn hard to be the only one left standing.

_Full recovery does not look good…We've done everything that we could…_

Dean wanted to believe in miracles. He wanted to believe that his father could pull out of this. Unfortunately, his family was never one to be fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of those. Dean was pretty sure God had forgotten them. His family deserved so much more than the hands they were constantly dealt.

"Dad," Dean said, finally getting up the strength to say something. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to keep my word to you. I'm going to look after Sam. He's not doing too well, Dad. But I swear to you, I'll figure this out."

He looked at his father's face, like he expected some kind of reaction, but wasn't surprised when he didn't get one. He would take any kind of expression from his father in that moment. He'd take his father angry and arguing. As long as his father was there. As long as his father was actually coherent and strong. Not like this. Not crushed.

"Just wanted you to know…" He turned to leave, but stopped. He looked back at him and still knew he had so much more to say than that. The man that he respected and revered. The man he loved was broken. To hell with duty and responsibility and the "report" he'd just given. He meant it. He'd protect Sam, but he would also be there for his father. "Be strong, Dad. I know you can beat this."

He went back to his chair and had a seat. Eyes still affixed to his father and his condition, he still felt that everything was surreal. He heard the door creak open behind him and his nurse was returning. He hadn't had as long with his father as he'd hoped, but he needed some time to think.

----------------------------

Dean woke up after having returned to his room for some much needed sleep. He was aware that he wasn't alone, and turned in bed to face the window and the person sitting in a chair next to it. He recognized her immediately and was surprised, not expecting to have any guests.

"Mrs. Montgomery?" he groaned out, voice rough with sleep.

"Dean," she smiled weakly from her seat. "I'm so sorry."

Dean sat up a bit and shook his head. "Your barn…"

"Forget that," she stopped him. "What were you doing out there, anyway? I got a call from the police…my barn is the least of my concerns. Damn thing was a hazard anyway. Steve was always too drunk to keep it up…" She paused, and in a hushed voice leaned forward. "Did he come back?"

Dean shook his head. "He's gone. I promise you that, Mrs. Montgomery. We were just making sure…before all this."

She bit her lip and sat back. He could tell she was feeling guilty over the whole thing. She didn't need to. She also didn't need to know that it was a demon impersonating her deceased husband. She had enough to worry about.

"Oh Dean, honey, I'm so sorry," she apologized again.

"It's not your fault," Dean assured her. "Shit happens. Unfortunately with my family, it's a daily occurrence."

She looked down at her hands, playing with a few of her rings. "I confirmed your story with the police. So you don't need to worry about that anymore."

"Thanks," Dean said.

"Anything at all you need, just ask. If they discharge you soon, you can stay with me."

Discharge. Dean wasn't ready to leave yet. He needed to be near his brother to figure out how to help him. Only being able to come during visiting hours wouldn't work. He'd try to stay as long as he could…but he was sure that with his replenished blood volume they'd be kicking him to the curb soon enough.

"I might have to take you up on that offer," Dean replied. Then he thought of something she could do for him. "Hey, my father's truck…"

Mrs. Montgomery nodded, "I can look after that for you."

"My father has something I need from the truck. It will be in one of his duffel bags. Leather bound journal…and a cell phone."

Mrs. Montgomery nodded, "I'll bring that by later today." She stood up and put her jacket back on. "After everything your family has done for me. It is the least I can do."

She smiled again, a sad smile. Dean couldn't stand all the pity, but at the same time, at least someone gave a damn. He honestly hadn't thought that anyone would have cared enough to check up on his family like that.

----------------------------

Night brought restlessness unlike anything Dean had ever experienced. It was too quiet and he'd been sleeping on and off all day long. He turned on the light above his bed and grabbed up his father's journal from the bed stand. Mrs. Montgomery had come in earlier as promised and given it to him. He'd leafed through it several times, trying to decipher anything his father had written.

It was all scattered and random. Names and addresses sprawled out over pieces of newspaper and other scraps of paper and photographs. Dean knew his father wrote a lot, but he had rarely looked through the actual content. It was like trying to piece together a puzzle. A very long, drawn out, and beyond coherent puzzle.

Dean had read the earlier entries. The ones about his father before he started the hunt. He returned to the last few entries that he could actually read and looked them over again.

_December 25, 1983_

_Didn't sleep again last night. Woke up in a  
cold sweat and realized it was Christmas.  
Where's Mary? That was my thought all night,  
and it stayed in my mind all day. Christmas   
without my wife seems unreal. Our celebration  
was clumsy… a crooked two foot tall plastic  
tree, a bunch of junk food stuffed in the  
stockings, and a pile of sports equipment for the  
boys… football, basketball, soccer. My attempt  
to bring back some normalcy. Already Dean is  
too big for T-ball, this year we'll be going to  
real Little League games. Or rather, I'll be  
going to the games. Alone._

_Mary will never see Dean hit a home run. She'll  
never see Sammy walk, or hear him say his  
first words. She won't take Dean to his first day  
at school, or stay up all night with me worrying  
the first night he takes the car out. It's not  
right that she's not here, and that's all I could  
think about today. I'm so angry I can barely  
see straight – I want my wife back._

_The police have officially declared our case  
closed. What a Christmas present, huh?_

_January 1, 1984_

_Today a new year begins. Mary loved this time  
of year; she loved the idea of a fresh start for  
everyone. She always made a resolution, one a  
year, and unlike most people, she kept hers.  
And every year she tried to talk me into  
making one, but I could never see the point. I  
wish I could have seen her diary. Maybe it  
would help me remember her. Maybe it would   
clue me in to some over her secrets. Maybe that's  
the point of a diary. Keep your stories, your  
life, from dying. So that other people don't  
forget._

_God I wish the boys could have known Mary for  
longer._

_This year I'm making a resolution. I'm going  
to find out what happened to my wife._

He'd re-read these few entries a dozen times over. They made him feel closer to his father, knowing his thoughts from the start of the hunt. Knowing that once...once his father was trying hard to give him and Sam a normal life. Before all this. Before it had become clear that there was a world that many people had the luxury of ignoring.

_Maybe that's the point of a diary. Keep your stories, your life, from dying. So that other people don't forget._

Dean wouldn't forget his father. If he never woke up…Dean would finish what he started. He flipped through a few more pages and found a few scratches that alluded to a demonic case his father had investigated. In the margins he had scrawled a number and a name: Bobby. There was also a small note about him being a "demon specialist."

Dean took up his cell phone and decided to take a walk around the halls. He poked his head out of the room and saw the night shift desk worker was busy on the phone. Her hushed giggles and flirtatious exclamations of "stop it," and "you're such a dork," had Dean rolling his eyes. She wouldn't even notice he was up and walking the halls.

He stepped out into one of the abandoned lobby areas and dialed up the contact that his Dad had listed. It rang a few times before someone finally picked up.

"Yeah," the voice was rough and ticked off.

"Are you Bobby?" Dean asked.

"Well, that really depends on who's asking. Make your point fast before I hang up on your ass."

Dean raised a brow at the guy's tone. He had to be an old friend of his father's. Not many of his father's contacts were all sunshine. "I'm Dean, John Winchester's son," Dean started.

"Really?" Bobby sounded dubious._  
_

"Yes, last time I checked, still waiting on the paternity tests, though," Dean responded.

"You have five seconds," Bobby returned.

"What?"

"One…"

"Look, I need your help!"

"Two…"

"Are you serious?"

"Three…"

"Son of bitch. Just shut up and listen to me!"

"Four…"

"Eleven, two, eighty-three! My brother is in trouble, and either you help me or I'll do this on my own!"

There was a long pause.

"Where are you?" Bobby asked.

"St. Joseph's. Sterling, Colorado."

"I'll be there."

There was a click and that was all Dean was going to get. He closed the phone, putting the antenna to his lips. This was going to be interesting.

----------------------------

A/N: So this chapter was all Dean. I know. What about Sam? We'll get inside that skull of his soon enough. This was one of those pesky transition chapters. But I assure you this is just a calm before a series of storms. Thanks again, Mady Bay, for your time and beta talents. Thanks so much to all of you that review. Please leave a review on your way out… keeps me sane.


	8. Divided Soul

Chapter 8: Divided Soul. Divided Destiny.

"You lied," Sam breathed with a hint of victory, lifting his head from his chest and glaring at the demon before him. "My brother is alive."

Sam was a mess. For what seemed like days, he'd been trying to escape his own personal hell. Tortured by the sadistic creature in front of him with visions and lies, all intended to break his spirit. All intended to persuade Sam to give up his soul… to lose hope in a life worth living.

When he had first come around, he could have sworn he had won against that damn thing. Convinced that it would be either it or both of them that would be taken out, he had read the holy rite while the demon had held him under water. What he hadn't counted on was waking up, back in that barn. The smell of dung and hay had ripped back curtains of fog from his consciousness and hit him with the realization that he was _not _in a good place.

There hadn't been a concerned hand shaking him awake, or Dean's presence coaxing him to open his eyes. There was no sound at all, just suffocating silence, leaving his ears burning for some indication of life other than his own. Coming around, he'd wanted to rub at his eyes, but found that to be momentarily impossible, feeling the grainy coarse fibers of a rope catch on the flesh of his wrists.

It was at this point that Sam realized that he was screwed. He had no idea where Dean or his father were and while this was the barn he recalled from the Montgomery farm, it was different. There wasn't a break in the floor, or flooding lower levels. None of the farm equipment was scattered about the place. He was secured to a support beam toward the center of the barn; legs sprawled out before him, in the center of an empty floor.

Later, when he unfortunately learned he wasn't alone, Sam started to wish that he hadn't woken up at all. The very demon that he thought he'd banished presented himself, alive and well, and currently in control of the situation at hand. It had tried to save its own skin, retreating into Sam, knowing that a trip to hell would mean it would have to face the demon it had tried to usurp. The same demon that had destroyed Sam's family 18 years ago.

The creature promised Sam that it would succeed in owning him, that it was only a matter of time before Sam would break. Sam, beyond any reason and logic, realized that his current prison was indeed his mind, molded around his last memories. This demon's new playground was some hybrid of Sam's mindscape and the physical world. He had sent them both into a subconscious realm, one he didn't know how to wake up and free himself from. Screwed suddenly didn't even begin to describe his current predicament.

Hell. Absolute hell. Sam had gone through physical and mental anguish at the mercy of the creature trapped with him in his mind. He'd even been told that everyone he loved was dead. That he had killed them…because that was his destiny. To kill. To destroy. To be hated and feared. And Sam was eventually worn down to a point where he had believed.

But he'd escaped. Somehow, he'd found a way to wake up, even if it had been for just a moment. He'd seen Dean…Alive…

"You lied," Sam said again, this time with a laugh. Then he stared the creature in the eyes. All the malice he could bring to his irises burning into it. "You son of a bitch." He screamed out the last part, his voice echoing through the space between them.

"You asked him to kill you," the being said nonchalantly, its form mimicking Sam's reflection. It got up from its perch on a crate and moved toward Sam. Sam's face fell for a second, his weak smile dying out. The demon smiled at this. "Didn't think I knew what you were doing? I was counting on it. How is Dean?"

Sam set his jaw, looking down at the ground. He'd asked Dean to kill him out of desperation. God, what had he been thinking at that moment? He'd been blinded by pain, by self-loathing. Sam thought it was the only way out. He didn't want to hurt the ones he loved. Dean had seen what a freak he was. Dean had watched him levitate a whole damn hospital room in an attempt to get out of this hole. That look in his eyes had mixed with visions of what Sam was told he'd done to Dean and Sam had asked him to take his life…to destroy him before he hurt anyone. To kill him before he killed Dean…

But being there and seeing Dean had reignited hope in Sam that had almost completely died within him. Hearing his brother's voice ask him to be strong…He suddenly wanted to live. He wanted to renig his pathetic request to Dean. His elder brother had gifted him with more fight in his spirit. He found himself asking: What would Dean do?

Be a smartass.

"Funny, he looked pretty damn good for a dead man," Sam spat.

The demon shook his head. "Can you blame a guy for trying? You believed it. You asked him to take you out. A part of you believes what I've told you."

Sam's nostrils flared, as he rested his head back against the pole he was tied to. "I will find a way out of here."

"Maybe…" the demon said, pacing again.

"What makes you so sure I can't escape this 'fate'? A man…"

"Makes his own destiny," the demon finished mockingly. "One of your brother's half-assed philosophies."

Sam swallowed painfully, parched. He found it inconvenient that he was in his own mind and couldn't escape physical ailments that were only mere projections. He was pretty sure his body was hooked up to some sort of IV somewhere, fully hydrated. If only he could make the damn warped realty his own, like when one discovers they are dreaming and can manipulate the dreamscape. But it was taking all he had just to fight.

The demon continued, "Let's just say, us demons have a different… vantage point. I've seen the paths you take, Sam. I've seen the directions you will go. You can't escape what you are."

"I will," Sam said with such resolve that it momentarily disturbed the creature.

All the demon's hard work to wear down this animal before him, and brief contact with its sibling had put fire back in its eyes. Disconcerting. It would have to find another way to break him. It crouched down beside him, studying his bruised and cut face, flecks of blood on his chapped lips, and hated the look in his eyes. Hope. But what gave Sam Winchester hope?

The demon sent another flood of visions into Sam's mind. Forcing him again to see the people that would die because of him or at his hand. He watched Sam squirm, eyes clamped shut, and lips repeatedly denying what he was seeing in his head.

"No, this isn't me…you don't get…to…define me," Sam said defiantly.

The demon stopped the twisted slide show, and had a seat again. He watched Sam take in deep breaths, eyes plastered to the ceiling like he was asking for help from above. Sam was a fool. Nothing would get him out of here. He was too weak in his abilities to do anything for himself, and anyone on the outside couldn't get to where he was. The demon had all eternity, Sam didn't. He would be patient.

But the way Sam started to laugh caused ire to burn within the demon. Sam Winchester was not as weak as he had appeared. Sam Winchester had a hope and a strength, and the demon's hope that Sam's request to Dean would cause both brothers pain, had only backfired. Out of control and losing patience with sight of the rebellious smirk on Sam's face, the demon willed more pain through Sam's body. At least for now, it would cure him of his minor arrogance in victory.

* * *

Dean's eyes opened at the first loud crack of thunder. His hand had instinctively gone for the knife he usually kept beneath his pillow, but his hand grasped nothing but air. He sat up, remembering where he was, bandages and the stitches beneath catching and pulling. He sat there in the dark, thinking again about Sam. Even while he slept he was thinking about what he could do for his brother.

Nothing was coming to mind.

Anything but a solution would come to his mind. His brother's request, while Dean would never even consider that an option, still haunted him. What was happening to Sam? What had pushed him to death as an only option? The demon's words about Sam being special opened up a whole new myriad of questions within Dean. So his brother was chosen…for what? If it had anything to do with the Demon, then he knew it couldn't be good.

In just a few days, his whole reality had been shifted. It made him sick to his stomach. One minute they were a family. Any normal family-and Dean didn't have any delusions of being part of such a family-would have gone out to celebrate Stanford. But the shift from normal had been so violent, so venomous. His family had split down their own stubborn paths, and within the same day, alone, they had been struck down. Dean didn't know how to pick up the pieces. He didn't know how to bring everything back around…or if that was even possible now…

There was a flash of lightning, which illuminated the small hospital room for a second. The burst of light cast a shadow from the window across his bed; the silhouette of a man in the chair beside him. Dean's eyes shot up from the sheets to the window, looking to identify whoever it was with him. His hand darted for the light at the same time, turning it on. The face of his visitor illuminated fully.

"Dad?" Dean saw him, but couldn't believe that he was sitting there. Not in his current condition. But as much as his logic rejected the phantom before him, he had never been so relieved to see anyone. Many times Dean had woken up throughout his life and seen his father sitting in a chair, playing with his wedding band. He would be watching over them. When he was little, Dean remembered finding comfort on nights he couldn't sleep, waking up and seeing him there in vigilance.

"_Go back to sleep, Dean. I'm here."_

Those words had always brought such comfort to his four-year old mind. When had he stopped watching? Dean recalled a few weeks ago, getting up to go for a walk in the early morning and clear his head. His father had fallen asleep in the chair. Never. John Winchester had always looked over them …

Dean wondered if this apparition was his brain trying to grasp for something familiar. He wondered that until his father actually spoke.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," John said. He wouldn't look his son in the eyes; he just kept them on the ring on his finger.

"For what?" Dean asked.

"I lost myself somewhere along the way…I never meant for you to take everything on your shoulders, Dean."

"Is this real?" Dean asked, still unable to shake his rejection that his father was sitting there.

John looked up at Dean, face aged with pain and exhausted. He looked older than Dean thought he should. He always had.

"I need you to listen to me, Son. I need you to just listen," he said, leaning forward. "I wish I could be there for both you and Sam. I lost so much time…"

"You did the best you could…"

"Dean..."

"No. I won't listen to you talk like this." Dean had watched John beat himself up for years. Throughout his whole life, Dean knew that his father had struggled over his decisions; whether he had done things right. Dean had no doubt in his mind that his father had done what he could. He was grateful, even though it seemed as if his life was screwed to hell, that they were still a family. They still had each other. They knew how to survive. Dean didn't want to hear apologies. He didn't want to hear some "goodbye" speech where his father regretted his life.

"Fight this," Dean said, eyes fixed on his father's tired irises. "Dammit Dad. Don't tell me you came here to say goodbye. You're going to wake up."

"Dean, I need you to watch out for your brother."

Dean shook his head, trying not to get angry. "I always have. I always will."

"I know…You've done good, Son," he said sadly. "You've always been there for Sam….and me. I'm proud of you, Dean.. God, I'm so proud of both of you. Please tell Sam that. Please let him know that I am happy for him. I screwed up, I made him think that his accomplishments were nothing. Sammy made something of his life…"

John looked down at the floor, continuing with the nervous twisting of the ring on his finger.

"Dean…I want nothing more than to see you boys get to live life. Dean, I want you to have a home…I…" John was struggling, pouring out a heart that had been hidden. He looked like he was barely holding it together. "I'm sorry…, but I need to ask more of you."

Dean nodded. Anything. Anything his father asked of him, he would gladly do.

"Help Sam," John said. "I thought I could stop it, but I'm out of time."

"You're not…"

"Dean," John said sternly. "I need to know you'll carry on without me."

Dean shook his head. He didn't know if he could do this without his father. He knew he could fight alone…but he didn't want to. He blinked back tears, telling himself to stop being so damn weak. To be strong. But the man he admired and adored before him was passing on the quest. He was asking Dean to leave him, to accept that he might never wake up….Dean had always thought that his father would be there with him until the end of this journey. He deserved to be there at the end of the journey. John 'Bulldog' Winchester couldn't be throwing in the towel…

But he was…

"Sam…" John continued. "I started to find out about those other children, the ones like Sam, who on their six month birthdays lost someone in a fire. They are chosen by the Demon we are tracking. I thought that maybe I could kill this thing before anything happened to Sam….but, I was wrong. I don't know what it wants with him…I never got that far in my search for answers, but I know that Sam needs help. Help I can no longer provide…"

Dean absorbed his words, realizing how much they didn't know. How what had started as a search for revenge, was suddenly becoming more. It was a struggle to save Sam. The damn thing had not only destroyed their lives eighteen years ago, but had its claws in his little brother, now.

"When Sam wanted to leave I could only think about how he'd be in danger, how I couldn't protect him anymore…but a part of me was glad. In a way he would be away from danger…I could find this thing and fight it." John looked at Dean, with tear-laden eyes. "I was going to leave you, Dean…I was going to fight it alone. I wasn't planning on coming back."

By this point, Dean had forced himself to become numb. He had forced himself to take everything in and digest it before he would react, but there was too much. His father was giving up. His brother was part of some demonic plan, and his father had never planned on telling them. John had been planning to fight it alone, ditch Dean, and hide the truth from Sam so he could live in ignorance. While Dean understood his father's drive was his concern for Sam and he, he couldn't get over how much it hurt.

"And what would have happened if it had killed you?" Dean asked angrily. "What if you never got to warn Sam…if you left me to figure this out alone?! We're stronger together, Dad. This is our fight as well. Not just yours."

"I don't want to bury my sons!" John yelled, startling Dean. "Everything. ..everything I did was to keep you alive."

"You don't think I know that?" Dean asked back. "You taught us to survive, Dad. I never once doubted your love."

John wiped at a few stray tears, angry that he was being weak in front of his son. "I never wanted this…"

"I know," Dean said. "It's the damn hand we were dealt."

John nodded, his face still giving away that he was feeling guilty and inadequate. "I love you, Dean. Sorry I never really said it. Sorry I put this hunt first..."

Dean shook his head. "Stop apologizing. Just promise me you'll try to fight this."

John let another tear slip and he reached out for Dean, grabbing his shoulder firmly. "Go back to sleep, Dean..."

* * *

Dean woke up a second time. Sitting up to another pulse of lightning and crash of thunder. His eyes had opened just as the last surge of light illuminated the hospital room. Dean's eyes went to the chair where his father had been sitting. The chair was empty and Dean felt his heart leaden.

Nothing that real could have been a dream…

As much as he felt numb by everything he'd heard, a part of him had needed to hear those things from his father. A part of him had needed to hear the words 'proud' and 'love' leave his lips. He lay there until he fell asleep again, watching the storm rage outside his window.

* * *

The next morning, Dean found it hard to wake up. His heart wasn't in it.

Fortunately for him, his assigned nurse was more than enough motivation. She burst into his room, the door slamming against the far wall. She muttered an "oops" and an apology before laughing at her clumsiness.

Annoying as hell.

"Mr. Page," she said, opening his closet. The wheels within the track squealing in some unnaturally high pitched sound.

Dean took his pillow and buried his head under it. "Dear, God, have you ever heard of bedside freaking manner!"

She hadn't really heard his muffled response as she lifted the pillow like she was playing with a child trying to skip school.

"You're to be discharged today," she smiled. She obviously found it to be the news of the day.

Dean sat up quickly, a 'come again' look on his face. She found it funny, smile broadening.

"You get to ditch the hospital food," she chirped.

_Oh yes, you have me there, _Dean thought. _Now everything has taken a turn for the better._

Dean looked at the chair, thinking about his talk with his father. "I can't."

"You don't have a choice, sweetheart. You've been discharged. We need the room."

_Sweetheart? Un- freaking believable_

She started for the door and stopped. "You've got a guest. I'll send him your way."

Dean got out of bed, pissed and wanting to stay there. He still had no idea what was wrong with Sam. He needed to be there for him. Tossing on a pair of jeans and a shirt Mrs. Montgomery had brought in from his car, he had just sat down to put on his boots when he saw the shadow in his doorway.

"Dean Winchester?"

Bobby.

* * *

A/N: Still alive and almost done with this crazy semester at school. Thanks again to Mady Bay for beta editing. Thanks to everyone who is still reading this for your patience. More to come this week. 


	9. The Game

Chapter 9: The Game

"You're Bobby?" Dean asked indignantly, eyeing the man with a conspicuous scrutiny. He was an average height guy with shoulder length graying hair pulled up underneath a hat. Complete with flannel shirt and ripped, oil-stained jeans, he was the poster child for Trucker's Weekly. Not exactly the scholar or demonologist that Dean had pictured in his mind.

"You don't remember me?" Bobby asked, only slightly surprised. He didn't let it get to him. "Your father and I used to work together a lot when you were younger.

Dean pretended to attempt to remember, shrugging and tying off his boots. He got to his feet and looked at Bobby, still sizing up the man in front of him. "Sorry, still can't recall." Although, a part of him could remember shooting pellet guns with Sam at targets in a scrap yard and some ogre dog named Rumsfeld. In a way, he knew these memories belonged to Bobby's home.

"Probably just as well," Bobby said absently. He leaned against the doorframe, watching Dean pack. "You have a place in town to stay?"

Dean shrugged again. "There's a hotel two blocks from here. Or the woman we were helping on this hunt offered her home."

Bobby moved into the room. Dean watched him, surprised by the softness of his features. The hard ass on the phone wasn't at all what he seemed.

"I recognized you because I could see John in you," Bobby said. He was standing at the bed stand and now had John's journal in his hand. "Sam always seemed to take after your mom."

Dean shoved a shirt back in his bag and looked at Bobby, annoyed by the current conversation. He knew where it was leading, and at that moment he didn't want to or need to go there.

"I talked with a nurse about your father and brother. I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean saw in the man's eyes sympathy. He didn't need that. Not now and not from him. First of all, he was starting to doubt if this man could help him. Maybe if he needed a tow, but not with bringing his brother around. Secondly, he didn't want a family friend coddling him during this. He needed a partner, not a babysitter who felt they needed to watch John's "kids" while he was out.

Dean's disappointment wasn't much hidden. His actions and attitude were speaking volumes of what he was thinking. That this Bobby was just there as a favor to John. Dean's hope of some sort of advantage against the demon was slowly dying.

"Look, Bobby, I appreciate you coming out here. But you can stow the sympathy and any feeling of obligations to my father. I need someone to help me fight this, not get all nostalgic over a cup of coffee and discuss the good old days. I need help, not a grief counselor."

"Why do you think I'm here?" Bobby asked angrily. He had been picking up on Dean's attitude since he'd arrived. "I'm not here to hold your hand, boy."

"Good, 'cause that would be awkward," Dean replied.

Bobby set down John's journal and furrowed his brow. "You called me, Dean. You needed some help."

"You look like you could give me help with my car, not my brother."

Bobby had a short fuse when it was necessary to have a short fuse. Such as when dealing with offspring of John Winchester. He crossed the room, grabbed Dean by the shirt and slammed him back against the closet door. He brought his face inches from his and kept his voice low, but full of bite.

"Appearances can be deceiving. It's how you play the game. I keep a low profile and I stay under the radar. Seeing the things I've seen, stuff your worst nightmare can't even glance in the direction of, I want to stay under the radar. A young, loud mouth punk like yourself thinks they'll live forever. You attract the wrong type of attention. Both you and John, damn father like son, scream at hell and expect it to open its doors and bow down. You're 'I'm tougher' than this bullshit will not go well with me, boy. There's too much of your stubborn ass father in ya. I know you're hurting, Dean, but don't waste my time. Do you want my help or not?"

Dean looked back at Bobby fiercely. He'd been wrong. He'd underestimated the man's drive. He got the message loud and clear. However, he was not happy about the "tough love." Angry that what he had said was true, Dean shoved Bobby off of him, straightening his shirt.

There was a small gasp from the doorway, and Dean saw another nurse standing there. She must have seen some of the exchange. He rolled his eyes, ready to be free of this place. Her concerned and scared eyes only made him want to tell her to get a life.

"Is everything alright?" She asked.

"Sure. We were just about to hug and skip off."

Bobby sighed and picked up Dean's bag. "We were just leaving."

Dean took his bag back from Bobby, and grabbed up his dad's journal. "Let's go."

* * *

Sam had rubbed his wrists raw, pulling against his restraints in several attempts to free himself. He was sick of hearing the lies pour from this demon's lips. He was sick of the way he was forced to watch 'his victims' die at his hands. The demon's attempts to make him believe that he was a killer were these nightmarish images and he was becoming even more convinced that it was who he was. The thing would not leave him alone about Dean and his father. Having to watch them die over and over was forcing Sam to hate himself. But there was still that hope that none of this was real. Sam clung to it with such great stubborn resolve that his father would have been proud.

"Why won't you just give up?" the demon asked. He grabbed Sam by the throat. His fingers burned into Sam's flesh. "I want out of this hole!"

"Then leave," Sam gasped.

"I can't," it growled.

Sam struggled to breathe but continued to put up a fight the only way he could. "Sucks to be you, then."

The demon released him and looked around the place, almost like he was looking for an exit. Sam was supposed to be the tortured one, but the pathetic creature before him looked like it was the one having trouble.

"I will get out of here," it seethed.

"That seems to be your mantra," Sam sighed. He laid his head back against the pole. "I bet he'll be pissed to see you."

The demon glared. "Who, pray tell?"

"Your old man," Sam grinned, his voice seeping out through crushed vocal cords. He laughed to himself. "See. That calling card you left me…the five victims. That was genius. But I wonder if your father will feel the same way."

"Shut up, animal," the demon barked. "He's not around anyway. He's been sending his followers into this realm for him. The bastard is too busy licking his wounds."

Sam laughed again. "Now the phone call…That has me stumped. Why wish me well at school? Why even bother with the five women if you were going to lure me with the phone call?"

The demon stopped pacing and stared at Sam, giving away a mixture of confusion and irritation. "I didn't call you."

Sam narrowed his eyes, wondering if he had just imagined that exchange at the bus stop. No. He was positive he'd received a call from this demon. It had mocked him. Wished him well.

"You called me, just before I got onto the bus," Sam said angrily. Of all the things being messed around with in his head, he could at least remember the events clear as day that had led up to this. He didn't know what this thing's game was, but he wasn't going to let it tell him differently on this one.

"No. Calling you was never in the cards, kiddo," the demon snapped.

"Then who called me?" Sam asked darkly. "You working with another demon?"

The demon laughed. "Why would I share the wealth?"

The lights in the barn flickered and the demon's smile quickly faded. Fear filled his once confident expression. Sam caught the look immediately and scoffed. "Let me guess…that wasn't in the cards either."

* * *

Dean flipped mindlessly through the book he had in his hands, turning it to the side and watching the pages fly past before he dropped it on the table. Bobby looked up from his book and eyed Dean with disapproval, watching him toss the leather bound book on the hotel bed.

"What, no pictures?" Bobby scoffed.

Dean rolled his eyes and took his feet off the table. "Yeah, I have trouble with all the big words," he said sarcastically. "This is a waste of our time."

"I'm trying to find a way to exorcise the demon in your brother without causing damage. You want to run in there and start ripping demons out of him, then go for it. But you do this wrong, Dean, and they come back. Sometimes with seven more. And if you really are having a piss poor day, the damn thing takes your brother with it. So, tell me…am I wasting your time?"

Dean had a seat and put his head in his hands, dragging them down his face. "Fine. But we've been at this all day."

"I'm trying to cross your father's notes on the Demon with the different rites. Trust me…it is not easy to just go at this. Help or go get something to eat."

Dean got up and eased on his jacket. God, it hurt to move the muscles in his hands. He pulled out some pain meds from the jacket pocket and popped a few. "I need some air."

"Good, I need the quiet."

The book Dean had been looking through fell to the ground and he picked it up. It was open to a page on psychic connections through dreams. There was a way to help those who had been closed off from communication with the outside world, such as his catatonic brother, during an exorcism.

"What about this?" Dean asked, pushing the open book in front of Bobby. "I could help Sam…be there with him."

Bobby read over the page, shaking his head when he recognized what he was looking at. He closed the book and pushed it away.

"No."

"Why not?" Dean asked. "He asked me to kill him, Bobby. Sammy wants to die and I need to know why. Maybe if I…"

Bobby continued to shake his head. "No. You do that, you open yourself to a world of hurt, Dean. I don't need both of you taken over."

Dean sighed and grabbed up his car keys.

"Going for a drive?" Bobby asked.

"I need to clear my head," Dean said coldly.

He was halfway to the door when the lights in the hotel room started to short out. Dean went over to the bed stand and watched the lamp light fizzle out and back again.

"The hell…"

* * *

Sam watched the demon who had been his torturer closely, an expression of anxiety coming over its once twisted face. The barn lights were still going through their surges.

"Guess I should have the wiring in my mind looked at, huh?" Sam joked.

"I told you to shut up!" the thing snapped.

"You're afraid…" Sam said. He was wondering if he should be sharing in this thing's fear.

The thing laughed, running a hand down its face. Its eyes were wild and searching their surroundings. It knew it had messed up. It had been unable to break Sam in time. Now it had to answer for itself.

"Well isn't this a bitch?"

"Isn't it?" came a voice from the entrance to the barn.

Both Sam and the demon looked in that direction. Leaning against the wall was a dark silhouette of a man. It looked in their direction and all Sam could see was the soft glow of its yellow eyes.

"Daddy's home."

* * *

John Winchester came up out of his coma like a bat out of hell. One minute he had been drifting through oblivious unconsciousness, the next he was suddenly aware of pain and a desperation to breathe. It had felt like someone had reached inside his chest and held his heart in arrest. He'd sat up, regretting it as every muscle fiber and bone ached, pulling at IV's and his oxygen mask. He stopped when he realized he could breathe again, and the pain in his chest was subsiding. He fell back down onto his pillow, body too weak and broken to sustain the simple action of sitting up.

"Now that I have your attention," came a familiar female voice from his left.

He couldn't see her in the dark room, and his brain was too busy calculating his surroundings to put a face and name with who was talking to him.

"Who's there?" He asked.

Eyes adjusting, he could see her outline in the chair that was bed side.

"Poor John," she said, mockingly sweet. "Eighteen years of searching, and you have no idea what's right in front of your face." She lifted her head.

Through the dark he could see the yellow eyes now, looking right at him. He'd searched his whole life for the demon that had destroyed his family, and now the yellow eyed bastard was at his bed side, mocking him. He looked up at the ceiling, his body unable to cooperate, and nothing to defend himself with if it had been able to.

"What do you want?" he asked.

There was a sigh and he could hear the woman shift her weight in the chair. "You have two sons, John, so you know the pains of raising a family."

"You came here for parenting advice?" John rasped, laughing to himself slightly at the situation. He had never imagined meeting up with the Demon like this. The opportunistic coward had decided that now, while John was broken, would be the best time to pay a visit.

He heard a soft chuckle from the woman, "Oh no, John. We both know you're not exactly father of the year. I'd get better advice from a crack whore. No, I was just in the area, due to a little family business."

"I'm not exactly in the mood to listen to you bitch and moan," John sighed.

A few moments of silence passed between the two, then the woman leaned forward. "I could have killed you all, so many times, Johnny," it sighed happily. "The way you've been obsessed over me…nothing compared with the obsession I have with your family. You refuse to give up. The only people who have just kept on coming. I bit you…and you bit back."

"Is that supposed to make me feel special?" John asked, trying to keep his mind away from where it kept wandering: to thoughts that these were his last breaths. He kept thinking about Sam and Dean, wondering where they were, praying that they were all right. He knew Sam was in trouble, but he had faith in both of them.

"I've been busy, working on something special for your kind, so I haven't really taken the time to pop you like the tick you are… but back to family, John. I have a son that went rogue on me. He tried to harvest something from your son before the time it was going to be mine. Four years premature… but I am not too torn up about it. Sammy's just going to have to be ahead of the game. He always was a quick study."

"Dammit! You leave him alone," John snapped, which sent him into a coughing fit.

"That was damn near convincing," the Demon said. "But back to the issue at hand, John. Sam belongs to me. A part of you has always known that. The part that wakes up in the middle of the night to see if little Samuel is still tucked in all nice and safe under some generic, motel comforter."

"He doesn't belong to you," John said, though the tears forming at the corners of his eyes spoke a different testament.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Why are you here?" John spat, wishing the Demon would stop gloating and do what it had obviously come to do.

"You know, I was going to tear open my son when I found him, knowing he'd been plotting things behind my back. But him stabbing me in the back brought me to this place…at this time. I should have promoted the kid. Too bad I tore out his eyes and made him eat them."

John winced at that. This thing was sadistic, cold, and unrelenting. This thing now had his son.

"That other son of yours, Dean, he's a problem. Not a threat. Just an itch. You know he thinks he can save Sam. He thinks that somehow, his pathetic animal flesh and brain can overcome my work. It's cute. It really is. Gave me a good chuckle when I heard his thoughts." The Demon ran a finger along John's bed rail. "How should I kill him, John? Slow, like Mary, or put him down quick like a dog?"

John was seething now, his fists clenching and his nostrils flaring. How had things come to this point? How had he lost control so fast?

"Please…"

"Ah, now we're onto the pleas. I'll tell you what, Johnny…Since I find your family to be intriguing, I'll play a game with you. Sammy, who takes after you more than he'd like to admit, has promised me that he's going to get out of this. Dean, who strives so hard to be of some worth in your eyes, has made it apparent that he has every intention of rescuing his freak brother. The sad thing is that I'm actually curious to see how this will all go down. Now I could care less if I kill your boys now or later, but your life, John, ends tonight. The question is, do you trust your good foot soldiers to even put up a fight, or should I end all of your family's suffering?"

John looked into the eyes penetrating his very core. This thing didn't understand the love he felt for his children, the faith and pride he had in his sons. It was playing with their lives and had robbed them all of so much.

"I'm not sure I understand…"

The Demon sighed in annoyance. "A, you die, anteing up your chips, and your boys live – if they succeed – or B, you _all_ just flat out die. Your choice."

"You'll give them a chance?"

"Sam figures out a way to escape me, then kudos to him. Dean gets his chance to save Sam…and if he does, then that is just the Disney ending that would make Bambi puke. I'll let them live for me to kill off another day."

"How will Dean get a chance?"

Even though he couldn't see the facial expressions, he could feel the cruel smile. "That's right. Dean-boy can't play on Sam's level." It paused as if to contemplate its options. "I'll give him three shots at our "playing-field." But I'll be honest with you, John. I don't think he can handle it."

"I have faith in my boys."

"So, do I take that as your chip on the table?"

John looked away from the things' greedy eyes. It was enjoying his pain. John thought about a memory that seemed more like a dream. He'd gone to Dean, to tell him about Sam, and to ask him to carry on without him. Had that been real?

He hadn't gotten the chance to say goodbye to Sam. He hadn't been able to tell him how proud he was and how much he loved him. If that dream had been real, then Dean knew…but he would give anything right now to say it again.

_Stop apologizing. Just promise me you'll try to fight this._

Those words that Dean had spoken tore at him.

_I wish I could fight, but this no longer belongs to me…_

…_It's yours now…_

_Forgive me…_

* * *

A/N: Again, special thanks to Mady Bay and Aili for editing. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. I love getting them. As always, please leave a review on the way out. 


	10. Conduit

Chapter 10: Conduit

Bobby found Dean hunkered down beside the Impala, knees drawn into his chest and eyes set on the dog tags he had dangling from his hand. John's tags. Dean watched them catch the light, before he swung them upward and caught them.

"He gave up," Dean said absently, dropping the tags again. His eyes refused to leave the etched metal.

"Dean…" Bobby started. He wasn't ever one for eloquent speeches or heartfelt talks. He had a feeling neither would be of much help now anyway.

John was dead.

What could Bobby possibly say to Dean to help shoulder that kind of pain?

"Don't…" Dean said, his voice empty, cold.

The young man in front of him was trying to find himself, trying to find a way to salvage something from the void. John and Dean had been inseparable. Dean had spent his whole life pouring into his father. Being a diligent son. Loving John when no one else would support the stubborn bastard. Now John was gone. And Sam was getting worse. Dean's last thread of hope was lying in the hospital and fading. There was nothing that anyone could say to him. Nothing.

"Boy, I don't know what to tell you, but I do know that you still have work to do. Your brother needs you."

Dean's eyes finally gave up the tags, his head turning to face Bobby. His eyes were laced with the traces of his mourning; they were red, glassy, wounded. But his face… The cold glare he laid into Bobby after what he'd said cut into the man. How far this boy had come since he was a kid…The hell he'd been dragged through. Bobby could just vaguely remember flecks of normal that peppered this young man's life. Was that enough to hold Dean together?

* * *

"_Dean, hand me that wrench," Bobby said, motioning to his tools while the ten year old dangled over the side of his truck. He leaned into the hood, legs not long enough to touch the ground. He was watching Bobby work on the engine. The kid knew his stuff. It was surprising how much he knew. But then again…his father was a mechanic before…well before everything._

_Dean handed Bobby the wrench and continued on with his story telling. The boy had been going on about his father for the past hour, following Bobby around the scrap yard and helping him with the chores. John had left both Sam and Dean with Bobby while he took a case in Texas. _

"_Dad smoked that wraith in Tennessee. And those murders in North Carolina…he so took apart that raw head."_

"_Yeah…uh-huh," Bobby mumbled as he continued his work while trying his best to lend an ear to the eager boy, singing the praises of one John Winchester. Bobby did have to admit that what John did alone was above noteworthy. He just wished John could be there to see the admiration pouring unabashed from his boy. He wished John would take a break, maybe take a trip that didn't involve a hunt with his children._

"_When I turn eleven he said he'd take me along on the hunts like the one in Texas."_

_Bobby looked up from the engine and sighed at the news. Hunts like the one in Texas were too dangerous to bring along children – hell, that was the reason John left them there with him. Bobby was not only his source for supplies, but the resident babysitter. Not that ten-year old Dean Winchester needed a babysitter_

"_Sammy still has to stay with people, but I might actually get a chance to take out a demon."_

_Bobby wiped off some grease on his jeans and picked up a rag to clean up the rest. A speech stifled at the tip of his tongue. Everything in him wanted to warn Dean about the eagerness of looking for evil. Enough of it would come looking for him, there was no sense going and looking for it._

_"Dean," Sam's voice echoed through the garage to where they were. He was standing at the side door, hand laced in Rumsfeld's collar. The huge dog looked like it had been dragging Sam about the yard, not the other way around. Sam was wearing a fedora, much too big for his head. His unruly curls were sticking out under the rim._

_Bobby smiled, "See you found my father's old hat, boy."_

"_What you up to, Indy?" Dean asked, dropping from the truck and grinning at his brother. _

"_I made a map," Sam said kicking the dirt. "Come find treasure with me, Dean."_

_Dean looked at Bobby as if to ask if that would be all right. Bobby nodded. He hadn't asked Dean to help with the chores around the yard. The boy had conscripted himself. _

_Dean walked over to Sam and tapped down his hat, covering Sam's eyes, to which the youngest Winchester whined and pushed it up again. Rumsfeld started to walk away, dragging Sam with him, but Dean grabbed the collar._

"_You're more like Short Round, or Marian," Dean joked._

"_Dean, I'm not a girl," Sam cried. _

"_You're right. Where to, Indy?" They walked off, Sam handing Dean a small crayon drawing, which Bobby guessed was "the map."_

_Bobby watched them, shaking his head. Boys his age were supposed to be dreaming and playing._

"_Seek treasure, boy. Not demons."_

* * *

Scraps of normal. Scraps of a life. Bobby knew if it was indeed enough to keep Dean sane, then it was just barely enough. What was left was vanishing with Sam. Bobby leaned against a parking garage pillar, eye retreating from Dean's intense stare to the hospital sign above their parking space.

_John…What the hell am I supposed to do? _

Bobby knew very well how much Dean loved his father. That was never a question with him. But the anger there-he didn't know if Dean felt betrayed, or left behind. The words "he gave up," still resonated with Bobby.

_Your father didn't give up…wasn't in his blood…Sure as hell isn't in yours…_

Dean put on his father's tags, tossing them inside his shirt before getting to his feet. He nodded a few times, his jaw set, as if trying to convince both parties present that he was all there, that he was going to be all right. He then took his jacket off the trunk of the Impala and headed back toward the hospital. Not one word passed between them.

Bobby sighed and followed.

* * *

Several hours over cold coffee and ancient manuscripts, and Dean was about to put his face through plate glass. Bobby had brought his books and notes with him to the hospital so they could sit with Sam while they researched. The two of them were spread out across the table in the corner of the room.

Dean wasn't able to stay with it more than five minutes, his mind leaving the black ink and going to the pale, almost translucent face of his father. No matter how hard he'd press at his eyes, talking himself back into focus, he was haunted and unable to escape the sight seared into his memory. He was pretending that everything was all right…that he could do this now. Mourn later.

Who the hell was he kidding?

"The demon you saw was not the one your father was hunting?"

Bobby's question focused his attention for a second. Dean nodded. "Again, yes. Just some son of a bitch that was under it."

Bobby saw that Dean had opened to the page he'd shown him earlier at the hotel. A guide sigil was drawn on the page. Whoever performed that rite and bore the sigil was the "guide" for the one who was lost within his own mind. Again, Bobby refused to even look at that option. He shoved another book on top.

"Key of Solomon and a summoning rite, just bring it about long enough to talk with the bastard. It'll give me an idea what we're dealing with."

Dean looked at the book, another skeptical look coming to his already crestfallen face. "You want to talk with it? Maybe invite it out for a few drinks? Hey, great idea! Maybe we could come to some sort of understanding."

"Dean."

"Hey, if the damn price is right, Bob Barker, maybe it will just leave."

"I'm not happy about it…"

"Then why are we still sitting here with our thumbs up our asses?"

"Because I'm pretty damn sure the hospital staff will have us out of here when they see what we're drawing above and below your brother's bed. Also, if this is in anyway linked to _the_ Demon, I don't want to just open your brother up."

"Let me do this," Dean said, pushing away the book and jamming his finger down on the guide sigil. "I can do this."

"You don't think I get it, Dean? You don't think I know what is at stake here?" Bobby raised his voice a little more. "I get it. Your dad's gone and all you want to do is tear this thing apart for what it did to your family. You want revenge. A way to kill the pain. I get it! But I don't want to be the one to bury all three Winchesters."

Dean stared at Bobby, keeping his anger down as much as he could. The evidence of the storm brewing beneath the surface was in his flaring nostrils and darkened eyes. He shook his head, eyes going to where Sam was. Seeing him like that...

"You're right," Dean sighed, closing the book. He pushed it away from himself. "When did you want to do this?" he asked, subdued. Too much so for Bobby's comfort. It was as if the boy was giving up, simply so they wouldn't have to talk about it, while all along Bobby knew he was making his own plans.

"Tonight. I need a keycard though…"

Dean reached into his pocket and tossed one onto the table.

"Anything else?"

Bobby stared at the card and then back up at Dean. "Where did you…Never mind. I need some time to get the supplies…"

"All right," Dean said.

Bobby packed up a few of his books, leaving the rest for Dean to look over. "I'll be back. I have to make a few phone calls."

"Great," Dean replied, mock saluting Bobby before picking up his coffee cup and making a face at its old contents. "You go do whatever you do, and I'm going to get some coffee."

Dean pushed past Bobby before he could say anything else, needing air. The room was suffocating. The place was suffocating. He felt out of control, and like his own breathing was just merely passing away the time as Sam suffered silently alone.

He was going to head for the parking lot, but he didn't make it that far. He saw signs for the morgue and lost what front he had up for a second. He staggered into the stairwell, away from the busy hallways of the hospital, and braced himself against the railings.

He couldn't push his father from his mind. No matter how strong he was trying to be, or how much he wanted to tell himself he was all right, he couldn't shut out the cold truth that stabbed relentlessly at his core.

His father was gone. Dean had lost one of the only people that ever meant anything to him. And the pain that came with having that ripped away was staggering. He could physically feel the void his father's death left, the dark, consuming, spot on his soul. He dropped down to sit on the stairs, again pressing at his eyes, the morning replaying through his mind.

Everything had happened in slow motion. The phone call. The viewing in the morgue. Pulling back a white sheet only to reveal the shell of the once great man. The man himself, the one Dean would give anything to talk to, gone.

He remembered asking for time alone with him. Sitting there beside him in silence. Absorbing the truth wasn't happening, the synapses weren't connecting. It wasn't until he made it to his car that it hit home, and he'd lost it.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, immediately tasting more salt from the stray tears that found their way to his lips.

_I don't know if I can do this..._

He raised his glassy, green irises to the stairs above his head as he heard someone coming. He wiped away what was left of his tears and returned to the hallway to avoid an "Are you all right?" in the stairwell.

After finding better coffee, he moved back to Sam's room. He was surprised to find that Sam had a visitor.

"Mrs. Montgomery?"

She had just finished setting a vase of flowers on the bed stand beside Sam. She looked up at Dean and seemed embarrassed to be caught in the act of gifting flowers.

"Hey, Dean." She smiled weakly, and stepped away from the bed stand, hands folded.

"If you're worried we'll sue or something…" Dean started with a knitted brow. He couldn't understand why she kept coming back, why she kept making kind gestures to his family.

"No…no…" she said as she looked down at her hands. "It's been lonely out there at the farm. I get to thinking about my little girl. I get to thinking about your family…"

Dean moved back to the table and set down his coffee. That was when her next statement pierced right through him, causing him to pause there, keeping his back turned.

"I'm so sorry Dean…'bout your dad…"

Dean glanced back at her, suddenly finding interest in stacking the books that Bobby had left behind. "Yeah …well…Thanks for the flowers."

Thanks for the flowers? He rolled his eyes and faced her, even though he knew he'd get sympathy speeches and pitiful glances. He went to Sam's bed and looked down at his brother.

"Do you know anything yet?"

Dean flinched painfully at the question. He wasn't in the mood to discuss this. He wasn't in the mood to discuss much of anything.

"No," he croaked, choking on that damn lump.

He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, the simple action tearing him apart. He hadn't been to Sam's bedside all day. Not after the news had been delivered about his father. He couldn't bring himself to look at Sam this close, to be there and watch him fade. He didn't know how to save him…He didn't know how to tell Sam that they were all that was left of their family…

_Dad's gone…I can't lose you, too…_

"I'll get going," Mrs. Montgomery said. She took Dean's hand, the simple gesture startling him slightly. "Good luck."

Dean started to tell her she didn't have to go, but he started to feel light headed. The room shifted in his vision and he grabbed onto the bed rail.

"Dean?"

She started around the bed to where he was, noting his sudden loss of color and the confusion in his eyes.

Dean winced, sharply taking in a breath as his hand went to his temple. Pain was rocking through his frontal lobe with so much ferocity that his eyes began to water. "Yeah…" he groaned, holding out a hand for her to go. "I'm all right."

But another wave had him crying out, cursing, and just trying to stand. The pressure was building behind his skull, threatening to tear open his head.

Mrs. Montgomery tried to help him, but he was doubled over. When she realized it wasn't passing, but getting worse, she was at the door, screaming for help. There was a crash and she looked back as Dean hit the ground, taking the tray table with him.

* * *

Dean found himself standing outside the same damn barn that had been the epicenter of the relentless shit storm they had endured. Looking around, he could see there wasn't much visible past the fog collecting at a three yard radius. He couldn't see the farm house, or down the road to the street. There wasn't anything but the large rotting doors in front of him.

It felt like a dream. Everything. Even his movement took effort as he pushed on the doors to enter what he could have sworn had been destroyed. It wasn't until he stepped once again into the rotting wood hell that a sense of reality hit him hard and fast.

He saw his brother tied to a support beam at the center of the barn. He was unconscious, bleeding, and unmoving. Dean was at his side the split second he could get his body to move, sliding down beside him and lifting Sam's head in his hands.

"Sammy, come on," Dean pleaded. He didn't know where this was, or how he'd been able to get there. All he cared about was getting his brother out of there. He left his side for only a moment, to find a tool to cut him free. He sliced through the ropes and caught Sam before he could fall. The weight of his brother's body fell effortlessly against Dean's chest, and he wrapped his arms under Sam's to support him.

"Dean?" Sam finally came around, voice raw and tired.

"Hey," Dean said. "I'm going to get you out of here…as soon as I figure out where here is...exactly…"

Sam tensed up, pulling away from Dean and sitting back against the beam. He looked to be in pain, but Dean sensed that it wasn't physical. It was deeper than his wounds. Sam looked upset, almost angry, to see Dean there with him.

"Get out of here, Dean," He ordered, taking in painful swallows of air.

"Not without you," Dean said sternly. "Come on, Sam. I need you to…"

"Dad's dead…isn't he?"

The question took a ragged chunk right out of Dean's spirit. He'd feared giving Sam the news. He'd feared his reaction, but it appeared that Sam already knew. How Sam knew opened a whole new barrage of questions in Dean.

Dean lowered his head feeling the tears pool at the edges of his eyes. He couldn't lose it in front of Sam. Keeping his voice as strong as he could he answered, "Yeah. He's gone, Sam."

He looked up and saw Sam taking the news about as well as Dean had the first time. Tears escaping left and right through clamped eyelids.

"God, it's all my fault," Sam said, looking up at the ceiling.

"No, Sam…no one is to blame. If you think for a second it was because of the fight…"

"No," Sam breathed, looking right at Dean now. His eyes were defeated, complimented darkly by his hopeless countenance. "Dad's dead…because of who I am... what I am…"

Dean furrowed his brow, trying to understand. "Sam, what…"

"Go, Dean."

"What? No! Dammit, Sam, tell me what to do to get us out of here," Dean protested. He recalled he'd pleaded with Sam to leave just a few nights ago. If Sam had listened…Dean knew he was being a hypocrite. He didn't give a damn. He wasn't going anywhere.

"I won't watch you die, too!" Sam shouted.

Dean's vision blurred out for a second, and he shook his head, blinking off the tunneling effect until his vision returned. It had happened with Sam's outburst and he'd felt something push back on him. His mind reeled with the realization that Sam had caused the almost black-out. He remembered the hospital room…the levitating furniture…What was going on with his brother?

"Dad is dead because I'm _the _Demon's chosen, Dean. He told me... He told me why Dad died, why Mom died…why you'll die…"

Dean went cold with Sam's words. What he was saying couldn't be true. Not his brother. But his father…the lower level demon…they had all said something about this…Sam was "special." Everything was worse than he thought, if Sam was talking with _the_ Demon. Immediately at its mention Dean found himself instinctively looking around, feeling out the place for its presence, but they were alone.

Dean shook his head, saying "I'm not going anywhere, Sam." He said it to create steadfastness within himself as well. He had a feeling his brother could kick him out at any time.

His resolve to stay only seemed to cause Sam more pain. He shook his head. "I can't remember certain things, Dean…I can't remember who I'm supposed to be."

Dean looked at his brother, struggling to understand what was going through Sam's head. He smiled weakly, affirming, "Well, you're my geek-boy brother, for starters."

There was a ghost of a smile on his brother's lips, but it was quickly replaced with his inner and hidden torment. "Not you, too, Dean." Sam breathed through chapped lips. "Not you. I'm not worth your life."

"Sam…"

_If only you knew…_

"Go," Sam said forcefully, knowing Dean wasn't going to leave on his own.

Dean was knocked onto his back by an invisible force, his vision tunneling out again. He knew Sam was pushing him away. He was being kicked out.

"Don't do this, Sam," Dean protested. "Let me help you!"

But one more shockwave rocked through his mind and again his vision faded to black.

* * *

Dean woke up in a hospital bed. He was getting accustomed to the act. It made him miss waking up in cheap motel rooms. At least there you didn't have someone sitting bedside looking at you like they were about to poke you with a stick. Like now, Bobby was there…

"Not exactly the face I had wanted to wake up to," Dean groaned. His head was aching badly and he shut his eyes to try to stop the room from spinning.

Bobby leaned forward on his chair, rubbing at his temples. "What happened to you, Dean?"

"I found Sam…" Dean said. He pushed on his eyes, feeling the pressure give momentarily before it returned painfully. His spirit struggled between relief and fear. He had found Sam. But the condition he'd found Sam in…

Dean risked a look in Bobby's direction. Bobby tried to keep calm, but Dean could tell he was struggling to hold down the deluge of anger pent up behind his red cheeks. He hoped Bobby didn't think he'd used the sigil. He hadn't. He didn't even have all the supplies to perform the rite.

"Bobby. Shit, man, I didn't use the sigil. I swear," Dean came to his own defense.

Bobby took Dean's right wrist and unwrapped the clean bandages.

"The hell…" Dean started, but stopped as his eyes fell on his own red and raised flesh. Burned into Dean's wrist, around the stitches, was the guide sigil from the book.

"I know you didn't," Bobby replied. "That showed up all on its own. That demon knows what you want, Dean. It threw out the damn challenge when it gave you that. It's just toying with you now." Bobby rewrapped Dean's wrist and got to his feet. He looked like he wanted to take his twelve-gauge to something. "We need to get rid of this damn thing tonight."

"One problem," Dean said, eyes still focused on his wrist in stunned awe. He finally tore his eyes away from the bandages. "It's not just some demon anymore. It's _the_ Demon."

Bobby paled momentarily, his eyes moving back at forth between Dean's wrist and his face. He then left suddenly, cursing as he stepped into the hall. Dean heard him mutter something about being screwed to hell, before his footfalls retreated.

Dean looked back down at his wrist just as two crimson drops of blood hit the pristine white bandage and started to spread eagerly. His hand went to his nose and his fingertips came back slick with blood. He pressed a washcloth from the bed stand to his nostril and put his head back down on the pillow. Already he could taste the metal of his own blood. His mind started to move so fast, he felt like he was drowning.

The Demon had his brother. He was marked. The Demon had been listening to them all along. The bastard knew what Dean had wanted. Now, as he pulled away the blood soaked cloth from his face, Dean wondered if what he'd thought was the solution, wasn't also what the Demon wanted…

Screwed to hell was an understatement…

* * *

A/N: The wonderful Mady Bay and Eyelyo edited this chapter for me. Thank you ladies for all the hard work! And to all of you who review, I love it. Thank you. This chapter was my longest one I think. I'm hoping to shorten them up so they can be more frequent. I also realized after writing this chapter that Rumsfeld is one old dog. I'll explain that in a future chapter for those people-like myself-who are detail sticklers. I know...who cares about the stupid dog. Sam is some major trouble! More soon. Please review and let me know what you think. 


	11. Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own

Chapter 11:

Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own

_Tough, you think you've got the stuff  
You're telling me and anyone  
You're hard enough_

_You don't have to put up a fight  
You don't have to always be right  
Let me take some of the punches  
For you tonight_

The pulsating lights from his alarm clock stroked at tired corneas hiding behind his restless lids. The continuing flash of light forced his eyes to eventually ease open to view the nuisance on his bed stand. The large, hotel-provided, monstrosity of a clock was flashing midnight repeatedly. He could only guess that they'd lost power between the point he'd lost consciousness and now-whatever ungodly hour it was.

Dean listened to the quiet of his room, his mind going over what he'd seen earlier. He was thinking about Sam's "confession." He was thinking about the revelation that he'd placed at Dean's feet before throwing him out of his mind. The guilt Sam had unveiled to his brother, before he'd pushed Dean away. His brother was a part of the Demon's plans. Some twisted game. A game, that according to Sam, had cost them both their parents and would eventually take Dean's life as well. However, Dean didn't see how any of this was his brother's fault, and he sure as hell wasn't going to die to this thing.

After waking up in the hospital, he'd checked himself out early. He didn't care that the staff had warned him that he was leaving AMA. They'd wanted to run tests before an official release. They were looking for the cause of his blackout, but Dean didn't have the time. Dean felt fine. He didn't give a shit about tests.

Bobby had called off their plans- much to Dean's disapproval and resistance. He said that he didn't want Dean anywhere near Sam until he figured something else out. Dean was going to heed that advice about as much as anyone would expect him to: not at all. This was his brother. He couldn't stay away. Not after seeing the pain Sam was in. Not when Dean knew he was the guide that could bring Sam home. Now, to figure out exactly what "bringing Sam home," meant…how exactly he could get close without Sam throwing him out.

He'd spent his whole life guarding Sam, watching over him. He'd crawl into the crib with him when he was little, refusing to move to his own bed, knowing in an almost child-like faith that his presence was what kept away the darkness and the shadows. Growing up, he'd done the best he could to be what he could for Sam. Protector. Father. Mother. Brother. Friend. And the sum of all these- Guardian.

Now, Sam was keeping _him _safe. And the stubbornness of it all was killing Dean. Winchesters were stubborn men- almost to a fault. Dean sucked down another lump that rose at the thought of Sam protecting him. Dean had watched his brother walk away after the fight with their father and had wondered if Sam even gave a shit…

"_No, Dean," Sam shouted. "Look, what happened to all that bullshit about having my back."_

"_It wasn't bullshit!" Dean returned heatedly. "Just wish that you'd have ours."_

He wished to God that those words had never left his lips. That night for sure he'd thought Sam had turned his back on them. He hadn't even been willing to go on one last hunt and catch a bus in the morning.

The demon had played off of that by telling Dean exactly what he'd felt that night. The creature had used the betrayal of Sam's outburst, his calling Dean's most sincere words bullshit, to stab at Dean. But even then, Dean had known, a strong part of him had, that Sam did care. He always had. And now, more than ever, Dean saw that in his brother. Because now Sam was dying, alone… to protect him. Somehow Sam had rationalized that staying trapped where he was would keep him from hurting anyone, but Dean wasn't ready to let go. He wasn't ready to believe any ill-spoken prophesies of demons.

_Dammit, Sam! Let me help you!_

The quiet was grating on him, making him even more restless than he had been before. He shifted tired muscles among the cold sheets and tried to draw warmth from his own core. It was then that he turned his head listlessly to the window and thought that he could make out the silhouette of someone sitting bedside in the chair. The dark form was leaning on its knees, hands fiddling with something about the ring finger.

The shadow figure lifted his head, looking at Dean through the darkness. "Son."

"Dad?"

And his eyes shot open, waking up again in the darkness. His alarm clock was no longer blinking. Three a. m. was cast through the shadows to Dean's confused and bewildered eyes. He looked at the chair, now empty, and then back at the other bed where Bobby slept. It was empty as well.

"Dean," Bobby's voice cut through the quiet dark to him in a harsh whisper.

Dean followed the voice to the windows on the opposite side of the room, where Bobby was standing. He was off to the side, looking through the slats of the blinds cautiously.

"We've got a problem."

Still disoriented from the dream, Dean wondered if he really was awake this time. But Bobby's urgency had his bare feet on the floor in a second, moving to the window beside the other hunter.

"Just our luck," Dean said. "What is it?"

Just as he asked the question his eyes caught a glimpse of the police car parked by the office. The owner of the hotel was talking to an officer and pointed at their room.

Dean pulled away from the window, eyes darting to his bag. "Son of a…what kind of freak looks into credit card fraud at three a.m.?"

"What?" Bobby asked. "You're telling me that…"

"The card was brand new," Dean sighed. "But why else would they be here? No way to trace me as Page here. This room is under Burkewitz. So this can't be about Montgomery."

"You think he knows your card isn't legit?"

"Oh, he knows," Dean said, looking back through the blinds again. The owner looked pissed, waving his hands around. "Only money talks like that."

"You should have let me pay, boy!"

"His insurance probably covers it."

"That's not the point," Bobby sighed.

"Alright! I get it. I screwed this up somehow. What do you want to do about the five-o?"

Bobby's eyes shifted to the window again and saw the officer heading their way. He looked at the bathroom and the window there. "Go. I'll handle him."

"You're not taking the fall for this," Dean said angrily. "Not when we can both get out of here now."

"And go where, Dean?"

"I don't care if we sleep in the car. I can't…I can't do this alone."

"Dean, you can…"

"I don't want to, all right?!" Dean whispered back harshly.

Bobby swore and headed for his duffel, jamming as much in it as he could. He'd have to leave behind some of his books. Dean was doing the same, packing the bag as fast as he could, then bringing it to the bathroom window. There was a knock at the door and they both looked at it for a split second before starting their retreat.

"I'll have to come back for my research," Bobby muttered. Then he shook his head. "Who the hell am I kidding?"

The knock came again. This time it was more forceful and urgent. Bobby tossed his things out the window and Dean's as well before he hoisted himself up and out the small space. He landed on the bags and helped Dean, whose wrists were giving him trouble.

They shut the window and started walking away quietly. They could hear the door open and moved faster to the parking lot. Dean had parked the Impala around back. Bobby's truck was there as well.

"Meet me on Aspen," Dean instructed.

* * *

Dean was frozen at the end of the driveway, standing before the small farmhouse, his bag slung over his shoulder. Montgomery Ranch was on a sign near the main gate, illuminated by Bobby's headlights for a moment as he pulled up. 

The engine cut, and in a few moments Bobby was by Dean's side, staring up the gravel path. "You do realize what time it is?"

"I do…" Dean said absently. "She offered."

"Common courtesy would be to wait for morning," Bobby instructed.

"Thanks for the tip, Emily," Dean retorted. "But it's either this or the cars. I don't care either way."

Bobby sighed. "Never was one for common courtesies."

"Ditto," Dean said, getting up enough courage to move forward from the spot he was stuck to.

This was the place where it had all began. The hunt they had been on. It was the place where everything had gone to hell. And now, they were heading toward the same place that was supposed to serve as sanctuary.

As they walked toward the house, Dean noticed that Bobby was eyeing the barn. Or what was left of it. There were splintered pieces all the way out to the road they were walking on. The whole thing looked like a pile of scrap iron and wood.

"God…how did you…"

"Survive?" Dean finished. "Still trying to figure that one out…"

They walked on in silence until the reached the front walkway. "I'm sorry…"

"For what?" Bobby asked.

"For being an ass," Dean said. "For pulling you into this mess."

"It runs in the blood," Bobby said with a smile. "I put up with your daddy for so long, I think I can put up with you."

Dean smirked at that and looked down at the ground. "Whatever happened between you two?"

It was Bobby's turn to go silent. He stood at the door and shrugged. "I thought you didn't want to 'get all nostalgic over a cup of coffee and discuss the good old days.'"

"Do you see a cup of Folgers in my hands?" Dean replied.

Bobby shook his head. "At times you mirror him. You know that?"

A sadness fell over Dean, along with a sense of pride. At least his father was with him…In a way that was both haunting and comforting at the same time. He was and he wasn't his father. He at least hoped that he "mirrored" his good qualities. His virtuous ones. Which, in Dean's eyes, was pretty much every attribute.

"Some other time, kid," Bobby said sadly. "Not tonight."

He knocked on the door a few times and they waited. The lights came on in the house and for a fleeting moment, Dean felt bad for waking her up. The door opened slowly and Dean's mouth opened to start into an excuse and an apology, but she was faster. Mrs. Montgomery opened the screen door and looked surprised, but pleasantly so.

"Dean, Bobby, come in," she said, stepping to the side.

Dean wondered how she knew the rough hunter at his side, but realized that he'd lost a few hours of his day when he'd connected with Sam. She tightened her robe about herself and hurried into one of the hallways, peering into a room and returning when she was satisfied that it was in a condition to house guests.

"Ms…" Bobby started.

"Just call me Karen," she interrupted.

"We're sorry to bother you, we ran into problems with our hotel and had to find someplace to stay," Bobby explained their situation.

Karen shook her head. "Don't worry yourself over it. I couldn't really sleep anyway…"

"Oh?" Dean asked.

"Old habits die hard," she admitted. "Too old to be getting up and working at the crack of dawn, but my mind still thinks I'm some twenty year old with a farm to keep."

She paused and looked at Dean with that ever present concern in her eyes. "Sure you should even be out of the hospital, hun?"

Dean shrugged, "I feel fine." He was lying.

She pointed to the room down the hall. "Go. Get some rest. There's one upstairs, too."

* * *

Sleep didn't come for either of the hunters. They found each other in the kitchen before the sun had bled its way onto the horizon. Bobby was making coffee and Dean had stumbled in from his room, attracted to the scent like a bloodhound. 

"So, is this like the Matrix?" Dean asked groggily, after they had both grabbed a cup and were sitting there among Bobby's latest research.

"I'm sorry. What nonsense are you talking, boy?" Bobby asked, lifting his head from the scripts in front of him.

"You know…that movie. It's all in your head. The world is what you perceive it as…"

"I'm still not following you," Bobby sighed.

"This _connection_ that Sam and I have…" Dean paused. He'd been thinking about this non stop since they'd left the hospital. Dean had been so close to putting up a fight when they'd been asked to leave. No tests meant he couldn't stay…but tests meant that he wasted time on finding answers. He'd let Bobby take him back to the hotel. He'd let there be distance between him and Sam. Because he needed to know more before he went back there again. He needed to know how to make things right, and what he could do to keep Sam from breaking the connection next time it was established.

"I just need to know if I _think_ I can save Sam…If I _think_ I can kill this yellow eyed bastard…can I?" Dean looked down at the wrist where the sigil was hidden beneath his bandages. He waited for Bobby's response and looked up when he didn't get one. The elder hunter was mulling over something in his mind. Dean smirked. "If I want an AK-47, will it appear?"

"I get what you're saying, but this is Sam's mind. He calls the shots. He just doesn't know it yet."

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek and tapped the handle of his coffee mug. "So what is the purpose of being a guide?" Dean asked.

"To remind them of who they are," Bobby said. "To lead them home. To a place of familiarity."

"We don't have a home," Dean answered coldly. "Dad…" He stopped and returned his dulling eyes to the black substance in his mug. "The road, Dad, Sam…_they_ were home."

_Are home…_

"It's all we've ever known…and Sam knows that Dad isn't…"

Bobby watched as Dean turned down his eyes, hiding the traces of liquid collecting beneath his fatigued jade irises. He stepped in, to return the conversation to the task at hand. Dean needed that. Dean needed a focus. It kept him going. As much as Bobby hated that this boy hadn't had time to mourn, and as much as Bobby hated that Dean was left alone to salvage what was left of his family, Bobby knew that Dean couldn't stop to dwell on these places long. He'd lose the boy.

"Dean, I'm sure that while Sam doesn't realize that he is in control, you can manipulate the _dreamscape_ if you will. I know you don't have a home. Lead him somewhere…you both consider home."

Dean looked up from his coffee and nodded. A moment of silence passed between them and Dean shook his head.

"What?" Bobby asked.

"Sure I can't summon up an AK-47 in his mind?"

Bobby rubbed at his beard. He knew telling Dean to stay away from the Demon would be like asking a kid not to touch a stove. Dean wanted blood. He wanted an outlet.

"The guide is there to guide," Bobby exhaled as he reached for his coffee. It was way too early to be having a conversation with a Winchester.

"So I just need to talk to him. Lead him home…whatever the hell that means."

"Yep."

"No going in with guns blazing."

"Exactly."

"What if …"

"Dean."

"Okay. Shutting up."

* * *

Bobby sat on the back porch of the farmhouse, watching the sun's crimson array of colors wash in with the morning. His cell phone was pressed to one ear, and he was listening intently to his friend read back a list of items to him. 

He was working on a backup plan. It was something to help out Dean if he decided that the connection with Sam was too risky. As it stood, Bobby wasn't comfortable with Dean going back to see Sam. He'd actually asked Dean to wait. Give him one more day.

Bobby felt like he was throwing out excuses and delaying the inevitable. He and Dean, both, knew that this was turning out to be the only way. They had one path in front of them, and Bobby was turning up nothing but dead ends with a way to rid Sam of the dark that had overcome him. This wasn't some lower level demon. This was the twenty two year old curse that ran like poison through the Winchester family. And anyone who ever let themselves open up their homes to them.

Bobby had cut off John a long time ago. And to this day the aftermath of that friendship still followed him. It was like the day he'd befriended John Winchester, he'd signed up for the war. Was this family worth that?

"Acacia, Oil of Abramelin, and the rest of that order from the Sawyer case we never finished," his friend who was in South Dakota finished off the confirmation.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, Joshua. I'm in Colorado."

"You gave me the address. I'll overnight this. You sure you know what you're doing?" The voice on the other end was apprehensive.

Bobby looked out at the horizon, his exhausted eyes drinking up the new day with trepidation. "I'm here ain't I? If I wasn't sure I would never have responded to that boy's call." He took in a deep breath, letting that settle his nerves a little and got to his feet. "Take care, Joshua."

The Winchesters were worth it. Sure, John and he had a falling out. But they'd been friends once. Sam and Dean had been looked after by him on more than one occasion. He was tied deeply to this family. He knew from reading John's research that a war was coming. That John's boy, Sam, could be in trouble. He'd heard from the lips of demons that something was going on behind the scenes. Bobby couldn't ignore the storm clouds collecting or the friend he willingly carried this burden alongside. He closed the phone and headed inside to find Dean.

Mrs. Montgomery was standing at the sink doing her dishes. She looked up, and smiled at Bobby as he moved to the hallway to knock on Dean's door.

"Dean," Bobby called out after a few hollow knocks.

Karen moved into the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel. "He left."

Bobby's head shot up at that. "He what?"

* * *

Dean opened his eyes slowly, taking everything in like he had the first time. The dreamlike feeling and fog of his mind had to be overcome before he could see straight and embrace his surroundings. 

He was lying on a bed, and could make out the eyesore orange and red patterns on the comforter beneath him. He could make out the crappy dim lighting, cast in red hues by the horrendous lamp shade. He took in the faint smell of cigarettes, and the vision that was curling wallpaper and a vintage knob-tuned TV.

_Home_

And his eyes came to rest on the bed next to his. Came to rest on hazel eyes beneath a mop of unruly hair.

"Hey, Sammy."

* * *

A/N: Special thanks again to Mady Bay for putting up with me. Thanks to everyone who reads this and especially all of you who review. You all make this writer very happy. Song lyrics belong to U2. 


	12. Schism

Chapter 12:Schism

_No mind, however loving, could bear to see plainly into all the recesses of another mind._ -Arnold Bennett

_Can you help me occupy my brain?  
I need someone to show me the things in life that I can't find  
I can't see the things that make true happiness, I must be blind _-Black Sabbath

With the initial haze gone, Dean was able to fully comprehend his surroundings, taking them in like the reception on a television that had just flickered out from snow quality. Going under this time, just by simply touching his brother, had been different. The first time it had taken him by surprise how quickly he'd gone under, and the pain that had come with that had been unbearable. He'd felt like he'd been thrown into ice cold water, the shock starting to leave only when he'd arrived at his destination, and even then he couldn't shake the effects.

This time the pain was the same- skull ripping and unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. The intensity of his agony unable to be expressed as his whole body seemed to contort with the exploding nerve ends in his brain. However, this time the transition had been slower, and he'd felt the pain replaced with something else as he went under. There was calm, peace, and a presence that was only characteristic of his brother. The familiar feeling was how he'd known he was close to Sam. He'd been able to feel him before he'd even opened his eyes. He'd felt his brother's own unique warmth through the cold.

Dean pushed up from the bed, marveling in the way that the threads of the comforter felt beneath his fingers. One of his memories of this place was pulling at the threads. He found the spot where his small fingers had at one time bunched up the fabric by pulling on the knots.

Even more amazing was seeing Sam there, lying in the bed across from him, staring back at him with uncertain eyes. He sat up at the same time Dean did, mirroring his expression of awe at being in this place.

"Where are we?" Sam asked.

Dean smiled at his brother, eyes still taking in the details of the room. More perfect than a photograph. If only memories outside of this place could be this vivid. Then again, there was a reason that the brain dulled out the edges of each mental picture. Some things weren't meant to be remembered with such acuity. And this place…

Sam watched Dean get to his feet and move to the kitchen area of the motel room. He watched as Dean ran his hand along the edge of the counter, and ducked down to open the small fridge.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" Sam asked, the same tones he'd had earlier in the barn lacing his voice. He wasn't happy that Dean was trying to reach him again. His face darkened as he got to his feet. "Why did you bring me here?"

Dean got up from his crouching position and moved back to the beds. He shrugged and rubbed the back of his head "I didn't really think my mind would come up with this place…I was shooting for any of the millions of stops we've made."

"You're not answering my questions, Dean," Sam said and started toward his brother. "I told you to leave me."

"And I didn't listen," Dean said sternly. "What are you going to do about it, Sam?"

Immediately Dean felt the same pressure he had back in the barn. Sam was trying to get rid of him again, but Dean stood there and smirked as the force ebbed effortlessly through him. He'd planned for this.

He knew that he'd have to find a way to stay there and he had. He ran one finger over the additional burns to his wrists. He could also feel the thick tissue of the nail scars. In this place the wounds were scarred over and healed, which made things a bit easier on him. It also kept Sam from seeing the damage that had been done to him. He knew from his first encounter with Sam in this place that Sam blamed himself for what had happened. Dean had focused on keeping his wrists healed over and he concealed them beneath his shirt sleeves.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sam," Dean said.

There was an invisible punch to the gut that Dean hadn't expected, one that sent him back into the wall. He was pushed against the peeling wallpaper, suddenly unable to move and reeling from the quick events.

Sam stood in front of him, face not too far from his. His eyes were begging for an explanation, full of fire and grief. "I told you to leave."

"And I told you that I'm not going anywhere, stubborn ass," Dean started, returning his brother's intense gaze. "So get that through your skull!"

Sam's face softened and he stepped away from Dean, eyes cast to the floor. Dean was released from the wall and he brushed off his arms, smoothing down his shirt. He watched Sam move back to the bed and sit, his face disappearing into his hands.

"I can't…"

"What Sam?"

"I can't leave here. I'll end up hurting people. I'll end up hurting you."

Dean started to interject, but a voice from the other side of the room drew his immediate attention.

Sam's voice.

"I'm destined for things you can't comprehend, Dean."

Dean looked to the corner where Sam was sitting on a desk chair. Dean looked back and forth between the two. Sam on the bed. Sam on the chair. Sam on the bed…

"What the hell?"

Dean looked at the one on the bed and saw the bruises and the blood. The beaten and bloody Sam that he'd seen in the barn, tied to the center upright support. Sam's breathing was short and choppy, and passed between broken and bloody lips. He wouldn't look at Dean.

The Sam at the desk was calm, and unmoved by what was going on. His eyes were cold and angry and boring a hole into Dean.

"Now is not the time to go multiple personality on me, Sammy," Dean said as he stepped to the bed opposite of his broken brother and had a seat. He tried to get that Sam to look at him, but he couldn't.

"Dean...don't waste your time…"

"You still haven't answered my question," the cold one snapped from his chair.

"Sam, I'm trying to bring you home."

"Home?" Cold looked around the room, while Broken stared at the floor. "This Hell hole? Figures this would be the place. Dad always brought us to shit like this."

Dean shot a glare at Cold. He didn't care if he had Sam's face. If this was truly a representative of his brother, then he needed to set a few things straight.

"First of all…"

"What?" Cold asked, leaning forward. "Dad did the best he could? This was the best he could do?"

Dean looked back at Broken, who again had his face buried in his hands. He decided that he was going to have to talk with Cold if he wanted to get anywhere.

"Look, I'm new at this whole…thing. Okay? This wasn't exactly where I wanted to bring you."

"Oh?"

Dean locked eyes with Cold – the only Sam he could manage to get a word out of. He had been trying to think of a place to take Sam. When he'd started to go under, the pain had overwhelmed him to the point that he couldn't lock onto a single memory. It was like someone had pulled the lever on a slot machine, and their fate was left up to the resting place of the reel. Dean had lost control. Leave it to his mind to come here…

"I guess it's somewhere to start…" Dean said tiredly.

Cold picked up a notepad and looked at the name of the motel printed in large obnoxious balloon letters. "Bucky's Inn is where you thought we should go, Dean?"

"I messed up…should have tried to focus harder. I didn't really remember this place in this much detail, but being here amplifies memories…yours… mine." Dean shook his head. "You wouldn't remember the beginning though…"

* * *

_Sammy's strident cries of hunger brought Dean down from the bed and to the edge of the small kitchen. His small feet paused at the edge of the shag carpet, tentatively. He clung to the wall watching his father balance the bellowing bundle of blankets in one hand, the phone pressed against his shoulder while he fumbled with a bottle._

"_Thanks, Mike," John paused, shifted Sam's weight and ignored the bottle for a minute so he could gently rock his distressed son. "No…no, it's late. I'm sorry…No don't bother with it…I...I appreciate the offer, but I'll see you in the morning."_

_Dean timidly moved along the wall to the corner of the kitchen between the wall and the cabinets. He squatted down to watch, arms around his knees. His father's voice held in it something that Dean had never heard before. His father's voice was usually strong, unwavering, and certain. Now it was weakened, hesitant, scared…_

_He played with the bottom of his pajamas while his father finished up his phone call. Dean wasn't sure what they were doing there, or why his dad sounded so scared. He knew it had to do with the fire, but why hadn't mom come with them here too?_

_His mom had screamed…that was why he'd gone to find her. But he'd found his dad instead, and Sammy, in the hall. He remembered the heat and the light and the sirens…His father talking with firemen and police officers, and his mom never did come out of the house…And a part of him knew she wasn't going to…_

_And now they were here. His father had told him to sleep…but he couldn't with Sam crying. Dean didn't ask about his mom…because a part of him knew that was why his dad was so sad…So he crouched there, listening and waiting. _

_There was a crash as the bottle slipped from his father's fingers and onto the floor. He'd been too tired and had lost his hold on it. _

"_Dammit!" he swore and Sam's tiny body shook with escalated cries of hunger and alarm. Dean recoiled a little more into the shadows._

"_Sammy, I'm sorry…shh…" his father tried his hand at comforting the squirming mess of tears. _

_John went to bend down and pick up the bottle, but instead started to sink to the floor, back pressed against the cabinets as he folded. He came to rest, Sam still held against his chest and crying into it. _

_Dean scooped up the bottle and knelt beside his father, making his presence known. He looked up and saw the wetness in the creases of his father's face. It looked so foreign on his cheeks that Dean had to reach out and touch the tears._

_His father took Dean's hand and pulled him into him, kissing his head as the tears continued to fall._

"_Sorry if I scared you…"_

_John held both Dean and Sam while he sat there shaking. It was one of the last times that Dean would ever see him cry…ever see him like this…_

"_This is just temporary, okay, Dean?"_

_Dean nodded. He didn't know that what was temporary was the tears…and what was going to be home was places like this. Neither did John._

* * *

Cold's gaze drifted to the kitchen and then back at Dean, puzzlement evident on his face. The images of Dean's memory had moved through both Broken and Cold. It had been quick, but had carried with it the emotions Dean had felt that day. The vividness of that scene had been so strong that the two versions of Sam could still see his father's outline in the room, back against the cabinets. Broken was affected by it, Cold seemed indifferent but curious.

"How…? I could see what you saw back then…" Cold asked.

Dean was still taking the memory apart, and letting it settle within him. Seeing his father again…It had brought about more than he had bargained for. His stomach twisted, core shuddered and he closed his eyes to clear the tears.

"I don't know…Maybe this is how I'm supposed to help you…"

Broken was a mess, and finally looked up at Dean, his eyes glassy. "You can't convince me that I'm worth that," he said. "Dad's pain…"

"How is that supposed to help me?" Cold asked. "You just confirmed the truth that I was what destroyed this family in the first place. Mom died because of me, Dean. That drove Dad to this life!"

_No. A damn demon drove Dad to this life. And shit! Way to be a pessimistic fatalist, Sammy. How about that memory holds how we stayed together…how about that represents the family that rose out of that…_

But he couldn't say that out loud for some reason. Instead he took the defensive and tried to figure out where all of this self resentment was coming from.

"No. Again, I'm not exactly an expert at this!" Dean raised a hand in his defense. "I had no idea thinking about that memory would force it on you. It wasn't meant for rubbing your face in our past like a dog, Sam! The Demon's got you thinking that this is your fault. Tell me Sam, how this was your fault?"

Cold and Broken were silent for a while. The only sound in the room was from the bedside clock counting off the seconds tediously. Each tick hollowed out Dean's spirit. How was he supposed to get through to Sam? Especially Sam split in two.

Broken was Sam's guilt. It didn't take long to figure that one out. It was Broken that was killing his brother's physical form. The reason that Sam's body was failing him. Cold was Sam's analytical side. Unfortunately, in the presence of Broken, Cold's logic was skewed. And where was Sam? The whole that was Sam? Damn, Dean would take Whiny or Broody versions over Broken and Cold versions of his brother any day. Dean couldn't believe that he was even thinking this way calmly. Then again, nothing in their lives fit well within the boundaries of sanity.

"Mom's death was somehow supposed to 'wake me'…" Broken answered.

How? What was that supposed to mean? In just a few days his brother had become something entirely different in his eyes…No. Wait. That wasn't completely the truth. It was like this place and Cold and Broken. How he felt about Sam hadn't changed. There was just one more layer to his brother now. A layer that scared Dean shitless, but it wasn't what defined Sam absolutely.

He'd come to learn that his brother was 'special.' The levitating furniture and surviving the barn collapse was evidence to this. So what? Sam had a sort of Skywalker thing going on. While Dean couldn't explain this, he didn't think that because a demon wanted it that Sam should bear the burden of their mother's death. Even their father's…Sam couldn't have known that this thing would go after their father to get to him. Hell, neither of them knew about Sam's 'gifts' until now.

His father had known something…

And Dean had promised him he'd save Sam…

And it was about more than these gifts.

Dean rubbed at his temples, overwhelmed. He didn't want to think about what his father had known in foresight to these events. He was barely clinging to what was left of his father as it was. He was barely clinging to hope. He didn't want to add that to the pile. When the world of the Winchesters came crashing down, it came down hard and seemed to consume everything. And where had that started? With that damn demon.

"Sam, put the blame where it belongs. On that son of a bitch who did this to us."

Broken looked up at Dean. "I tried…" he breathed. Dean tensed up at as Broken became short of breath. He didn't look like he was doing well, the pain more evident in the taut muscles of his jaw. He was paling as well. "Told him…to go to Hell…told him I'd get out of this…"

Broken started to slump forward and Dean intervened, darting into the space between the beds to grab him underneath his arms. Sam's weight was heavy against him, slack and flaccid, and Dean was grateful for his "healed' wrists. Dean helped Sam to lie down, his eyes searching Sam's bruised face and pain laced eyes.

"Sammy, hey...look at me."

Dean's heart was faulting beats as he realized that Sam was starting to fade on him. Sam's damn guilt and stubbornness was stealing him from Dean.

"Let me die," Cold said. He had gotten to his feet and was now standing on the opposite side of the bed. "Dean, you have to let me die. I can't escape my destiny if you don't let me go."

"Why?" Dean asked angrily, shaking uncontrollably now. His eyes dug into Cold. "Just let you go? It's not that fucking simple!"

Dean was holding Broken now and screaming at Cold. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that the Sam dying in his arms, the one he wanted to save so desperately, was the same one standing across from him, who he wanted to tear into.

The room was falling away with Dean's distress, and it flickered in and out like a television losing reception.

"If I die then people will live. You will live, Dean." Cold was leaning on the bed now, looking right at his brother. The words slipped from his lips like they were discussing stats for a hunt.

Cold was presenting his logic and Dean wanted him to shove it. "Sam!" Dean shouted at the embodiment in front of him while he silently willed his brother in his arms to live. "You go, then I go. We clear?"

"Look, Dean…I'm not stronger than this. I'm…"

"Bullshit!" Dean screamed. "I get it…" Dean choked, anger and hopelessness creating a sick lump in his throat. "You're trying to protect me…but I need you to try to come back from this, Sam. I'll help. I will. I won't let anything happen to you. We'll…we'll figure this out. Okay? But don't give me that this is the only way…"

* * *

He was going to kill him. If he found Dean all right and unharmed, he'd be able to breathe again…and then he'd kill him. Bobby had realized too late that he'd asked Dean to wait and give him a day. He'd never specified the parameters of that agreement. Dean had said he'd give _him_ more time. Never once agreed to waiting himself.

Bobby slammed his truck into a parking space and made his way to Sam's room. He found Dean draped over his brother's bedside. It looked like he'd fallen asleep while keeping watch, but Bobby knew better. He moved to Dean's side, lifting his face from the sheets and sitting him upright in the chair.

"Dean?" Bobby shook his shoulders lightly. "Boy?"

Nothing.

"You wanna explain what that was all about?" Karen's voice rang from the doorway. "You ran out of there like the hospital was going up in flames."

Bobby shot her a look that said 'it might as well have been,' and she watched as he locked his arms under Dean's and moved him to the bed next to Sam's. "Is he all right?" she asked.

He took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting between the boys. Sam's bed and then back to Dean. "I don't know." He'd checked for a pulse and found Dean's was steady. Sam's heart rate was counting off in regular but weak intervals on the monitor.

"Then what is wrong?"

"I can't even begin to explain this…" Bobby said, finding the woman's presence more of a nuisance than a help at that moment. He knew she meant well, but this was their problem, their issue.

"Something is happening to them…and you don't think I can understand it? Try me. Those two came to my doorstep to tell me that my _dead_ husband was murdering people."

Bobby crossed the room and took her shoulders like he meant to usher her from the room, turning her slightly to make his intentions known. If she didn't remove herself, he'd remove her. Again, it wasn't that he didn't appreciate what she had done, he just couldn't do this. He couldn't give her his attention while his mind worked through where Dean was and if he could bring him back safely.

She looked like she was about to say something, but the alarm on Sam's BP monitor started to sound as his pressure plummeted.

* * *

_I'm not strong, Dean…_

_You are, Sam…always have been…_

Dean hadn't realized he'd stopped breathing until his lungs started to burn and hurt. He'd been holding his breath, holding his dying brother, and trying to reason with him to hold on. Reason. No. He was pleading, begging, willing it to be so. He wasn't backing down or accepting anything else.

"Don't let this kill you, Sam. Let me help," Dean said, eyes burning with tears. He was staring right at Cold as he spoke. Seeing Sam well was easier than looking at him broken. But there was no denying the slowing of his brother's breath against his neck or the inconsistency of the rise and fall of his chest against him.

Dean's walls were down here. He couldn't hide his fear or pain from Sam in this place. Open and raw. His masks of strength were obliterated and reduced to the tears that were darkening Sam's hair.

"_I can't remember certain things, Dean…I can't remember who I'm supposed to be."_

Sam's words from the first time Dean had entered this place kicked him back to his purpose. He was Sam's guide. Dean knew that there had to be something he could do other than sit there while he died. Pleading and reasoning weren't helping. His tears were only the results of delving into the fear that this was over. He knew his thoughts could be imprinted on Sam, but what about the things that Sam had forgotten? Lies had suffocated the truth, blotting out Sam. Dean's Sam. Replacing him with shattered pieces and fragments. Broken…Cold…

Could he help him remember? Strong. Smart. Brave. Where had these versions of Sam come from? How had Sam come from a place of never giving up to a place where he was giving up on himself?

Dean tried so hard to focus on a moment when he'd felt proud of Sam. But, God, there were so many. He respected him as much as he loved him. It was the reason why their last words to each other had hurt so damn bad.

"Dean. I won't think you've turned your back on me if you leave," Cold spoke again, his voice calm to the point that it dug Dean open.

He ignored Cold, reaching for something, anything…

* * *

_Indiana, 1997_

_Going without their father on a hunt wasn't an act of rebellion for Sam and Dean so much as it was an act of intervention. Their father had asked them not to do anything "stupid" and in Sam's mind, stupid was asking them to wait around in a motel room. So, by deduction, they weren't going against his wishes._

_The whole mess had started with their father. The hunt he was on was a routine haunting of an abandoned factory in the woods outside of Marion, Indiana. One of the Rust Belt's finest remnants. A mess of spirits were haunting the woods because of a fire there, and because there were no bones to burn, an alternative method had to be used…_

_The whole damn place had to be blessed._

_But before their father had been able to do so, he'd fallen ill. Not the common flu either. It had happened quickly and without warning after he'd returned from the factory. Fever, followed by delirium. Classic spirit taint and Sam knew that._

_It was the reason that they had to go. _

_Before their father had slipped into sleep, he'd asked them not to go. He had told them that it would pass. _

"_Like hell it will," had been Sam's response as he'd taken his father's journal and headed for the door. Dean was after him in a split second, trying to reason with him, that they'd been asked to stay. Sam had turned the wording around, made it possible for Dean to see that this wasn't a disobedient move from command. The logic seemed sound to Dean and set a fire in his eyes and a smile to his lips. _

_After all, they'd be fine, right? They were prepared for this. They were fourteen and eighteen. Completely seasoned._

_But all those thoughts of overconfidence were lost on Sam now as he dangled from one end of a collapsing catwalk above the factory floor that was now ablaze. His father's journal caught on the rail and poised to fall to the inferno below. _

_Dean was hanging there beside him, trying to pull himself back up. The rusted walkway creaking and groaning under their weight. While Sam was holding onto the actual catwalk, Dean had managed to grab hold of a rope tied to the railing._

"_This is going well," Dean said, giving up on pulling himself up for a second to rest. "We've successfully pissed off the spirits, and screwed ourselves over."_

"_I just need…" Sam started but paused to try to grab the journal. He stretched his fingers out toward the leather strap that was dangling over the edge nearest him. "I just need to read the final rite…dammit!" Sam's fingers missed the leather by mere millimeters and he had to grab back onto the ledge with both hands, tiring. _

_The whole platform dropped a few more inches and Sam saw the book go. He didn't think as he grabbed for it, and he lost his grip. Dean reached for Sam and grabbed onto his hoodie. His own body snapped taut between the rope and the weight of his brother, who was now dangling from his hood. _

_Sam had thought for sure he'd been falling to his death, but when he finally caught his breath, and realized Dean had him, he also realized that he had his father's journal in hand. Sam reached up and took hold of Dean's wrist and looked up at his brother. "I got it," he smiled triumphantly. "I didn't lose Dad's journal."_

_Dean gritted his teeth against the strain, trying to lift Sam. "Congrats, Sam. Now stow the celebration and climb." His fingers were slipping and they were both going to plummet if he couldn't hold on._

_However, Dean couldn't hold on even if he wanted to. The whole structure shuddered and then fell away from its supports in the wall on one side, swinging downward. Dean let go of the rope and they both freefell ten feet or so before smashing into one of the lower catwalks. Dean's head connected with the metal grating and Sam landed on his back._

_Sam could hear the metal walkway they'd been on crash into the ground below, and he could feel the heat from the fire stronger here. He tried to get up to check on Dean, but when he moved his leg, he felt the deep pain of a gash in his flesh. He sucked up the smoke filled air in a gasp and pressed his fingers to the wound. _

_Holding his leg Sam looked for Dean and saw him not too far from where he was. He was hanging over the edge slightly, and Sam couldn't see his face. Crawling back toward his brother, he could see that his head was bleeding from a deep cut across his brow. He rolled Dean over and away from the drop off and tried to wake him._

"_Dean." Sam shook his shoulder, coughing as the smoke started to choke him. "Come on."_

_And that was when he heard the shrieks and saw the shadows move along the walls. The remaining spirits had found them, and Sam still had to finish the rite. He forced himself to move on his torn leg, diving for his father's journal. He flipped open to the page he needed as started to read._

_Debris from the factory machinery started to fly through the air at them as an unnatural wind tore through the upper levels. One piece of metal caught Dean, tearing open his upper arm and Sam threw himself over his brother's body, trying hard to read the words through the chaos. His lungs burned from the smoke, but he continued to read, screaming above the wails surrounding them. Sharp debris cut through his back and arms, but he didn't stop._

_He shouted out the last words of the rite and the wailing stopped. The wind subsided and the place was calm again. They'd been able to complete the hunt, and hopefully saved their father, now that every malevolent thing had been put to rest...now to get out alive themselves._

_Sam tied off his leg and started to drag Dean back through the factory toward an exit that he prayed wasn't blocked off by fire. The pain in his leg made it almost impossible, but Sam continued to pull his brother. He knew he had to be stronger than his pain. He knew he had to find a way out or they'd both die. Drawing strength from within wasn't easy when his body screamed at him to stop. His mind was telling him through pain that he couldn't do this… but he somehow managed to find a door…and he didn't stop until he felt the grass 'give' beneath his feet._

_He fell to the ground exhausted and bloody. _

_That was where Dean woke up and found him… _

_And somehow the lecture back at the motel, while their father stitched up Sam's leg, didn't bother either of them._

* * *

"Dean?"

Dean sat up almost immediately at the sound of his name. His vision tunneled out and he had to lie back down, groaning as he went. Moving between memories was taking a lot out of him. After the first one he'd felt slightly weaker, but he'd ignored it to look after Sam. It had been a slightly indiscrete pull of energy, but this time it felt like a vacuum.

The memory had been different too. Merged perspectives. Dean had known of what had gone on, but hadn't been around for much of the fight toward the end. Did this mean that Dean could look through Sam's memories as well as show Sam his own?

_Sam._

"Hey, Dean."

He thought for a second that everything was alright. He thought that maybe he'd woken from the nightmare. That was until he saw that they were in a different motel. Somewhere else completely. Sam's leg was a mess, covered in bloody strips of cloth. Like it had been back in Indiana. But this wasn't fourteen year old Sam. This was Sam as he was supposed to be.

The room was quiet and simple, no glaring and intrusive decor, no Cold or Broken. Just Sam. Dean got up, and sat at the edge of the bed looking at his brother who was no longer dying. Relief flooded through Dean, despite still being there. He wanted to pull Sam into a hug, but didn't. Instead he smiled weakly.

"Good, there's just one of you. That's hard enough to deal with, dude."

Sam shook his head, nervous smile ghosting across thin lips before leaving. "I'd forgotten Indiana. Here… everything is just…" Sam made a motion to his head, scrunching his nose, and furrowing his brow a million times over. "Cloudy. It's like I'm awake and dreaming at the same time…"

From what he could tell, Sam was alright. The leg being a reflection of the memory that they'd just passed through. He tried to think about the leg healed…but he was having trouble sitting there without getting dizzy. He ran a hand down his face and waited for the room to stop spinning.

"You don't think that I'm trained for this, Dean. To kill. Yeah…our whole lives we've hunted things. And I guess that makes me strong…but it also makes me dangerous."

"Dangerous to this Demon, yes. To humans, no. Sam, you…you're a freakin' boy scout, all right? I mean, you help little old ladies cross the street and find homes for puppies."

"Puppies, Dean?" Sam asked with raised brow.

"Okay. Forget the puppies. The point is that you couldn't hurt anyone. _You_ choose who you are. Not the Demon. Not anyone. Hell, you were practically on a bus to California before all this, Sammy. You were set on going to Stanford. _Your_ choice. You were set on being something. Still can be."

"And maybe destiny has other plans," Sam said. "I never made it to that bus…"

Dean rolled his eyes, "Destiny? Do you even hear yourself?"

Sam shook his head, laughing dryly. He looked at the ground, hiding his eyes beneath his bangs. "God, I don't know what to think anymore."

"I'm not leaving until we figure this out, Sam. I promise. I…"

Dean stopped, hearing something reverberate inside his mind. A voice. A word: _Clever_. He didn't understand what was meant by the word, but the more he tried to figure it out, the more confused he became. It was there and then it was gone, but the feeling that came with it didn't leave. Instead it grew inside of him. Cold and hopeless. Stroking at the fibers of his brain.

"The hell was that?" Dean asked.

Sam looked at him confused. "What was what, Dean?"

The sigil on his wrist began to burn. He took in a sharp drag of air at the sudden pain. He felt the warmth pour through his fingers before his eyes made it to his wrists, re-opened and pouring.

"Dean," Sam started. His concern clear, mixed with the panic in his voice.

"Shit," Dean exhaled, starting to make his way to the sink in the room. The thought crossed his mind that this wasn't real, that he could halt the bleeding if he focused on stopping it. But he didn't make it to the sink, instead, the room shifted, swirled in on itself within his vision, and he fell.

Sam was by his side grabbing onto his shoulders and saying his name, but Dean was slipping away, his body flickering the way that the motel room had before. He was being pulled back, but he couldn't leave. Not now.

_Not now!_

He took hold of Sam's shirt desperately trying to stay with him. He'd promised that he wouldn't leave. He'd promised that he's stay to figure this out. His promises were all that he had as everything went dark.

* * *

Bobby had arrived at the hospital to find what he'd feared: Dean had gone back for Sam again. He'd found the boy beside his brother and had moved Dean to a nearby bed. He knew he'd have to try to bring Dean back before something happened to him, but didn't know how. The first time Dean had come around by himself…

Then there was the glaring thought that bringing him back would do more harm. He didn't know exactly how this connection worked or what disturbing it would do. He didn't get much time to contemplate either scenario as Karen had caught up with him demanding to know what was going on.

Then even worse fears started to come to fruition as Sam's blood pressure dropped considerably, setting off the alarm. Both he and Karen had exchanged panicked glances before the door to the room was flung open and they were pushed aside by some nurses. They moved about Sam's bed, checking the monitor, one running back to get a doctor.

It didn't take one studied in medicine to know that they were losing Sam. Bobby looked back at Dean, and could see his brow knitted, his body agitated with some sort of discomfort. Bobby went to Dean's side and out a hand on his shoulder, attempting to comfort him and give him strength.

"Hold onto him, Dean," Bobby whispered.

He watched the team inject something into the IV, but it didn't help. His pulse continued to weaken and his pressure continued to fall. Bobby wanted to scream, unaware that he'd stopped breathing until his brain kicked him in the ass to take in a deep breath.

And then Sam's pressure stopped its downward descent and started to rise slowly. It leveled out to a low but stable place and Bobby exhaled as the heart rate counted off weak beats, but beats stronger than there had been.

"That a boy," Bobby breathed. To both of them. He ran a hand down his face and had to find a seat, suddenly feeling lightheaded. Unfortunately, he'd just started to sit when his cell went off and one of the nurses shot him a look.

He had to remove himself to the hallway, still slightly shaken from what he'd seen. Why was he so caught up in these boys? Since when did he give a crap about John's kids? He had known the second that the young man told him he was Dean Winchester on the phone that Bobby himself was in trouble. He was in danger of giving a shit. Why? The answer lay in the reason he was there now. Because these were kids of a friend. Because he'd helped raise them to a degree. And he'd thought he was going to lose one…

The phone was still ringing in his trembling hands. Bobby finally flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.

"Yeah," he started, walking toward the stairs. He shut himself in the stairwell and leaned against the wall.

"It's me." The voice he'd conversed with that morning.

"Joshua. What is it?"

"I'm not mailing the supplies," Joshua said calmly and with a business air. Bobby didn't know what was up, but this was ridiculous. He needed those supplies. Now more than before because of Dean's actions.

"What? Why not?" Bobby growled into the phone. "Dammit, Joshua!"

"Calm down, Bobby. Meet me."

"Joshua…I swear to Heaven and Hell if you don't explain yourself…"

"Manning. One hour. Glen's Place."

"You're in Colorado?"

There was the click of disconnect and Bobby clenched the phone between white knuckled fingers. He was going to take Joshua apart. He'd asked him to do one thing. One damn simple thing.

He went back to Sam's room and stopped at the door. The doctor had left and one of the nurses was talking with Karen. When she left, Karen tilted her head questioningly in Bobby's direction.

"What?"

"I have to go…but I can't…"

"You need to go?"

"To help them I need to go." Bobby looked back at the beds. He was surprised the nurses hadn't questioned Dean's presence.

Karen picked up his thoughts by the look on his face. "Told the nurse he was exhausted from worrying over his brother, and that he needed the rest. Any reason I shouldn't call her back in here to look at him. 'Cause you're scaring me."

"I have to go to Manning," Bobby said. He couldn't believe what he was saying.

Karen sighed and Bobby could tell that she wanted more than that to be satisfied. "I'll look after them. Call you when he wakes up…I just wish you'd tell me what is going on."

Bobby had gone to the table and picked up a notepad to write his number on. He scrawled it quickly aware that he was losing time. He handed the paper to her and gave Dean one last look. At first Dean had appeared peaceful, but now it was clear that he was more than uncomfortable. His brow was starting to collect beads of sweat and his face would tighten intermittently in small revelations of pain.

"Call me when he wakes up," Bobby said, reiterating the plan. He still found it hard to move from where he was, but eventually made himself, cursing inwardly as he left and made his way back to the truck.

When he was gone, Karen grabbed the chair that Dean had brought to Sam's bed and moved it closer to Dean's. She closed the door and had a seat next to the unconscious hunter.

"You know, the longer you hold on, the weaker you become?" she asked him. She paused and started to un-wrap the bandage on the one wrist where the sigil was concealed.

"Minds are fragile, Dean. Doesn't take much to destroy them. But you know that this is killing you and you don't care. As long as you get to save Sammy, right?"

She finished unwrapping the wrist and ran her finger over the sigil. There were three extra burn marks along it. Dean had made some modifications of his own. He'd seared an additional lock into place. It was the reason he wasn't coming out of this faster. Sam couldn't get rid of Dean with the lock in place. Not easily anyway.

Karen smirked, replacing the bandage, tighter this time, and watched his body react to the pain. She brought her face inches from his ear, running her hand through his hair in a mock act of comfort.

"Clever."

* * *

A/N: (3/4/07) I updated this chapter with the revisions. Thank you Mady for your skills of editing. Thank you everyone who has reviewed this and continues to read. I appreciate all of your support. :) Next chapter should be up this week. 


	13. Veritas Vos Liberabit

Warning: Strong language and violence.

Chapter 13: Veritas Vos Liberabit

_If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break,  
When the levee breaks I'll have no place to stay._ –Led Zeppelin

_Time after time, I'm going in blind, Don't know which way I need to go.  
Time after time, I walk the fine line, Something keeps bringing me back to you. –P.O.D._

It had been one of the biggest pains in the ass: burning the extra lines into place on the sigil. Dean wasn't an artist and he sure as hell wasn't able to do much with the knife blade and his lighter when both his wrists were shot to hell. The range of motion and the limitations on his fingers' dexterity made it a sonuvabitch to create the lock. He'd managed, with one of Bobby's books open on the front seat of the Impala, and colorful words flowing from his lips like it was part of the sealing rite.

He'd fought against the pain, willing his mind to flex and move muscles that were in complete rebellion against him. His own weakness only making himself angrier, more determined to endure the smell of his own burnt flesh and the sharp synaptic cries of his torn muscle as his whole body shook in insurgence.

But he'd managed.

Finding Sam had made all that he'd gone through seem insignificant. It was well worth the cost a hundred times over. Dean was impressed when his brother was unable to shake him from his mind. He was even more so when his ability to manipulate what both he and Sam saw came into play. He could heal his wounds, and deny pain here. Sam's however, had been almost impossible to take away. It was because these wounds were Sam's. Sam had to realize that he had the ability to wake up from the nightmare.

The more Dean showed his brother memories and gave him back pieces of who he was, the more Dean was starting to lose control. He realized that when his memories of Indiana were both of their memories combined. He also realized this when he couldn't stop the bleeding from his wrists anymore. He was suddenly no longer able to hold onto any sort of "reality," and he was being taken away from Sam. It was all because he'd heard something which had confused his mind.

Now, drifting away, he couldn't remember the word or the voice that had spoken it. He knew that the disturbance had done irreparable damage to his current hold on Sam. He wasn't able to hold the hotel room together, or stay with Sam. He was discarded into darkness, where he knew he'd be thrown back into the real world. His connection was being disabled and he'd failed yet again to do a damn thing for his brother.

But Dean refused to give up.

He latched on with what strength he could to the connection he had established with Sam. He wasn't ready to let go. Not when Sam had just started to turn around for the better. He'd made a promise to his brother that he wasn't leaving until they figured this out, and he couldn't break that promise. He didn't care what it would cost him to stay.

Coming around again, he could hear someone counting off numbers and he realized he'd somehow been able to keep his bond with Sam. It was still dark, but Dean was slowly becoming aware of the dim light beyond his eyelids and that he only needed to simply open his eyes to receive it.

"Dean." The voice was small and young, but very much Sam.

Dean cracked his lids and saw his brother sitting on the bed across from him. He was four years old, complete with unruly curls and a curious expression. Dean watched Sam tilt his head quizzically and thin out his lips.

"You said you'd teach me," he said.

"Teach you what?" Dean asked as he sat up, taking in yet another generic motel room setting. He looked down at his wrists and saw that they were once again healed over and scarred. He'd managed to pull himself back together, but he'd lost Sam…well, the one he'd thought was whole. Staring at the younger version of Sam, Dean wondered what had happened. Was he part of a memory now? Or was this yet another shard of his brother? A pint sized shard at that.

"Math," Sam said.

Dean saw the bed spread was covered with gummy bears. He immediately remembered the game they'd played when Sam was little.

Dean had a seat beside Sam and started to set the bears up on two sides of a divide in the comforter. He placed two on one side and five on the other.

"Seven," Sam beamed.

"This is too easy for you isn't it?" Dean laughed. "I don't think we have enough to get much more complicated than that."

Sam picked up a bear between his tiny fingers and ate it quickly. "Six," he said between chews. Dean helped himself to one and Sam laughed. "Five."

"I remember this."

Dean turned his attention from the kid on the bed, who was stuffing more gummy bears into his mouth, to the older version sitting at the desk. Sam of eighteen years tapped his pencil against a paper in front of him. Dean started to get up but younger Sam took his hand. Dean helped him down from the bed and led him over to the table.

"Embarrassingly enough, you used that method to teach me through the third grade."

"Who needs a calculator when you have candy?" Dean said, coming to his own defense. He watched Eighteen pour over the paper in front of him. Dean looked down at Four who was smiling incessantly and chewing on more of the gelatinized sugar figures. "You liked it."

Four handed Dean a red one and he took it. Dean looked up at Eighteen as he popped his favorite colored bear into his mouth. "He likes it. Besides, I used other methods…like word problems. If a chupacabra is coming at you at thirty-five miles per hour, a distance of three feet between you, and you can load your shotgun in three seconds, are you a dead man?"

Eighteen looked up from his paper and shook his head. A scoff escaped his lips. "Yeah. Those went over well in the classroom."

"And uh…how many cans are you able to pick off the fence with a Remington rifle in a minute? Eh? Oh, and there was the time I wrote your term paper for you after you got injured on a hunt. In Latin, dude."

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to explain to my teacher that I wasn't insane, Dean. You had her blushing when she realized that Futuo was well…yeah. I had to claim I was quoting the poet Catullus and had no idea what that word meant."

Dean laughed.

"Not funny," Sam sighed.

Dean knew the Sam in front of him wasn't complete. He didn't even remember that just a few minutes ago, Dean had been bleeding out in their hotel room from Indiana. He didn't remember that Dean had promised to help him figure this out. This part of Sam didn't even seem phased that his childhood self was sitting at the table with them and scribbling on a scrap piece of paper.

"You don't remember do you?"

Sam looked up questioningly. "What exactly? The gummy bears and all the teaching methods? I remember we snuck out that one night when Dad fell asleep on the couch exhausted after a hunt. You used the change from groceries to buy gummy bears and you used them to teach me times tables. It didn't take me long to figure out with your help."

Dean smiled weakly.

_Yeah...but that's because you are a freakin' genius. I probably only succeeded in giving you a sugar buzz._

Being a professor of the finest motel school program ever wasn't what Dean was talking about, but he thought about that night that Sam had mentioned. He thought about the way he'd thought for sure he'd get caught and get his hide tanned, but Sam was in a panic about his tests. Sam and his school. The kid's first love. Dean was in it for the gummy bears, the adventure of sneaking out at night, and because of his brother.

Sam wouldn't stop crying about how he sucked at life. All because of math. Dean wasn't about to let his kid brother suffer another hour in agony over his failed life-not when he was only in the third grade.

Sam had always been too hard on himself. And the way his eyes lit up when he finally understood the problems that night... Dean would have given anything to keep that light there.

"Yeah, well you surpassed me pretty quickly. Pretty soon I was the one getting us kicked out of school and you were making the honor roll."

Dean didn't know where to go from there; he had two "shards" of Sam, and had lost the one who he had started to get through to. For a second he started to get distraught, especially with the way he felt at the moment- like every ounce of strength was leaking out through his feet.

"This surpasses everything weird I've ever experienced."

"Even the body switching in New Orleans?" Sam asked, looking up from his paper.

"Yeah. Any more versions of you walking around?" Dean asked. "How many more ghosts of Christmas can I expect to run into, dude?"

Sam looked confused. "What are you talking about?"

Dean raised a brow. "You've got a miniature version of yourself making Picasso art next to you, and you have no idea what I'm talking about? You really don't know what is going on…" Dean turned his head and saw that Four was gone. He wasn't sitting with them at the table anymore and the paper he'd been scribbling on was gone as well. "..do you?"

"Dean I have no idea what you are talking about, and I need to finish this paper if I want to complete high school this century. I don't see how a haunting here in Arizona is really anything compared with New Orleans, either. You sure you're okay, man?"

Dean sighed and put his head down on the table. "Thank you, Guy Pearce. Please, God, tell me that I don't have to deal with Memento Sam."

"What?"

"Short-term memory loss…I swear I'm going to have to start tattooing this on your arms or something."

Sam still looked confused.

"One step forward and two steps backward…Never mind. Arizona, huh? I'll go with it."

* * *

_Arizona 2001_

"_Misandristic?" Dean asked, looking up from his brother's Literature paper._

"_Ubiquitous?" John raised a brow from the bed, where he was lounging with his own copy of Sam's paper._

"_Catharsis?" Dean said, shaking his head. "Maybe I'd like this sentence better if I stuck bitchin' in there. Does bitchin' catharsis sound good to you?"_

_John laughed. "Deus ex machina? Isn't that a literary term along the lines of fatally flawed? No. Wait. Being saved from one's fatal flaw. God, it's been so long since I've read stuff like this."_

_Dean put down his pencil after adding "bichin'" to the margins. "I need a dictionary to even read this. And what was Sam trying to do, write the next great American novel? This paper is ten pages long. On some crazy chick who killed her children."_

"_Euripides was only trying to convey the gender roles of his time, while delivering an obscure message of his own personal crisis of rejection for being different," John said as he put down Sam's paper and got to his feet to stretch._

"_I don't even know you," Dean said in disbelief. _

_John had smiled at that and pointed back to Sam's paper. "I just read it in Sam's observations." He then got quiet, face sobering. "Must have gotten this from Mary. Sure as hell didn't get this from me…"_

_Dean wrote a quick note on the end of the paper and stepped away from the table to get something from his duffel bag. He watched his father move to the sink to get a glass of water and noted the way his proud shoulders seemed to sag with just the hint of her memory._

_They were investigating a poltergeist in Flagstaff, and waiting for nightfall. Sam was doing some last minute research on the location of the man's body that was haunting the house, and Dean had just returned with his father from talking with the tenants of said haunted place to see what they knew about the previous owners. _

"_Think he's pissed at me?" John asked from the sink._

"_Do you even have to ask? That paper is really important to him, Dad. Last grade of the semester and all he wanted was to work on it today."_

"_I know…" John sighed. "I just needed his help with this hunt."_

"_A poltergeist? You knew this was routine. We could have done this with our eyes closed. Just you and me."_

_John was silent for a moment. Dean didn't have to see him to know he was running his tongue over his teeth, fighting himself internally. "He was talking about college the other day…"_

_Dean looked at the ground, his own internal struggle beginning again. The one between what he wanted and what he knew Sam wanted. Their family was going to start going their separate ways. Dean knew that. Sensed it. He'd seen the applications. Seen the way the arguments between his father and Sam had escalated. His father was acting like a man grasping at sand in desperation. Squeezing tightly was only causing it to slip faster. Both of them, Sam and his father, jumped every opportunity to tear each other apart. _

"_I know."_

_And they left it at that._

_The front door to the motel room slammed open against the wall and the storm that was his younger brother came into the room. Dean mentally face-palmed and braced himself._

_Sam hammered down the case file he'd taken with him and looked up at his father who was still standing at the sink._

"_Garden Lake Cemetery. Forty seventh row. Twenty fifth stone from the left. Is there anything else you'd like or can I get on with my own life now?"_

_Dean hit his head against the table a few times. What the hell was that? Sam had to know what kind of response that would receive…_

"_Yeah, come help your brother and I dig up the grave."_

"_Seriously? You want me to fail out? Is that it? If I don't graduate maybe I can do things like look up burial plots for the rest of my life."_

"_Sam," Dean growled from where he was sitting. "Car. Now."_

"_What?" Sam looked at Dean, unable to hide the hint of betrayal._

_Dean was sick of the fighting. He got to his feet and grabbed Sam by his shirt and spun him around toward the door. He pushed Sam out of the room and looked back at his father who was five seconds from an explosion._

"_We'll do it," Dean said to him before shutting the door, strategically placing the slab of wood between himself and any objection from his father._

_They worked on digging up the grave by the muted light of some lanterns. Sam's angry thrusts were directed at more than the dirt that each jab sunk into. Dean worked in silence beside Sam and didn't mention the paper or the fight that Sam looked determined to have once they were done there. His face set in a sour expression, Sam made the job go faster than usual with the added rage drive._

_Sam paused to rest. "I don't get it. Most parents…"_

"_Aren't Dad," Dean cut in throwing another shovel full over his shoulder. "We're not the Bradys, Sam."_

"_Why are you defending him?"_

_Dean stayed silent as he continued to work. There was no sense in discussing anything with Sam when he was like this. His shovel hit the coffin and he started to break through the wood. Sam came over and helped break away the wooden planks of the old box._

"_Liked your paper," Dean said as they gathered the bones and started to salt them._

"_You read it?" Sam sounded surprised._

"_Dad did, too. He got a kick out of your Deus something."_

_Dean pulled himself out of the grave and lent a hand to Sam who was crawling out after him._

"_Dues ex machina," Sam corrected, still stunned that his father and brother had taken the time to look through the paper._

"_Right. I made some corrections," Dean smiled. _

"_Dean, you made corrections? "Appropriate" corrections?" Sam asked through the faint beginnings of a grin. He was losing the battle against his own anger, the sides of his mouth unable to stop from twisting upward._

_His only answer was a laugh as Dean handed Sam the matches. "Your catharsis."_

_Sam struck a match and tossed it onto the bones, which immediately set into a hungry fire. Both of them were silent as they watched them burn. Something about watching the flames had a calming effect. Sam seemed to have relinquished his title of pissed off teen as he let out a sigh and started back for the car. "I have to see these 'corrections' of yours."_

_They arrived to a darkened motel room. The lights were out and their father had turned in to sleep early. Sam saw he was on the couch, the paper lying on his chest. Sam took it quietly, as well as Dean's from off the table. He turned on a light by the bathroom and leaned against the sink to read them._

_Dean watched Sam read over the papers while he took off his boots from the bed. Sam seemed to soak in everything he was reading. He then looked up at Dean and smirked. "I can't use bitchin' man. But thanks."_

_Sam watched Dean smile to himself and lay down to sleep. He stood there in the bathroom a while longer, taking in the way his family had tried to help him with a paper. His father didn't have corrections, just ideas and suggestions scrawled in the margins. But the things that caught Sam the most were the praises. The last note read: Looks good. Hope this was of some help, Sam. Feel free to ignore the ramblings of an old man and go with what you've got. You did well, kid._

_Sam went over to get his computer. He'd type the paper up tonight and print it at the local library in the morning. He felt guilty as he looked around for his laptop, because he was also looking for the booze. You did well, kid? It wasn't the first praise from his father…just the first in a long time not associated with a hunt. And that thought alone killed him. _

_He found his laptop and something else. The envelope to mail the paper into the program, addressed and stamped. His father's writing. Sam looked over at the man he knew he'd never completely understand. _

_Sam picked up a blanket and spread it over his father._

"_Thank you…"_

* * *

Bobby looked at his watch and then back up at the door. Glen's Place, was a small, dusty roadhouse on the outskirts of Manning, Colorado. Bobby couldn't even describe the place as rustic. Rustic was usually a term reserved for something upscale of this dive. But Glen's was where Joshua had wanted to meet, and so Bobby had to play the game if he wanted what he needed to be of any use to Dean and Sam. 

It was over an hour before Joshua arrived, more like two, which didn't surprise Bobby. The man was coming from South Dakota. He had to have left right after their phone call that morning, which had Bobby weary of this meeting already. It meant that Joshua had some sort of foresight into what was going on, and dealing with what they were dealing with, that made Bobby even more nervous.

Bobby stood up to greet Joshua, who strode over to his table with a nervous expression. Joshua was younger than Bobby, and stood a good foot or so higher. He looked like he hadn't shaved in over a month and added to the hunter persona with his all around lumber jack appearance.

Joshua shook his head in apology to Bobby as he approached, but didn't get a word out before Bobby laid a fist into his jaw. The punch almost took Joshua down, but he recovered, nursing his jaw, his blue eyes wild.

"What the –?"

"You're late," Bobby growled as he returned to his seat. He shot a glance at the bartender, Mike, who was now watching them closely. He wouldn't do anything, both Joshua and Bobby knew him, and Bobby had to assure him this was a matter that the two of them had under control.

"Look, I know you're pissed at me, but did you have to clock me? Huh?"

"Yeah, I did," Bobby sighed. "You've got five minutes to explain what the hell we are doing here before I drag you behind my truck."

"Alright, alright. Can I get a drink first?"

"It's not even noon," Bobby said, exasperated.

Joshua nodded over to a guy who was slamming them back at the bar.

"Worked for that guy."

"Four minutes," Bobby said.

Joshua signaled Mike for two beers and then started to pat down his flannel shirt pockets for something.

"Shit…" He held up a hand. "Hold on. Please."

Bobby motioned to the door lacklusterly. "It's not like you've only got, 3 minutes and 38 seconds, or anything," and watched Joshua head back to the parking lot.

Bobby waited for Joshua to return. Mike set down a couple of beers. Not too long after, the source of Bobby's current headache returned with a piece of paper and handed it to Bobby while he fumbled with a pack of cigarettes.

"What's this?" Bobby asked.

"Alright, after you told Caleb about John's death, he called up Harvelle, who got on the phone with Jim…"

"Who called the pope? Dammit, could you get to the point? I told Caleb not to start shouting the damn news from the rooftops."

That explained a little bit of Joshua's behavior. He'd known before the call that morning. Bobby didn't know if he should be glad that more people knew about John, or go kill Caleb outright for not doing as he'd asked. Why wasn't anyone listening to him?

Joshua took a drink and set down the beer. "It's not like John is coming back. We all found out 'bout what happened and started to piece together something that John was working on before all this. Remember Elkins?"

Bobby unfolded the paper and found a set of coordinates scribbled there. "Elkins? The vampire hunter? What the hell does he have to do with anything?"

Joshua took another drink and made a face before looking up at Bobby who was watching him closely. "Son of a bitch."

"What?" Bobby asked.

"You put holy water in my beer, didn't you?"

"I did not."

"Paranoid bastard, this stuff already tastes like watered down shit and then you add that crap to it."

"Can you blame me?"

Joshua sighed, "Nope. Look, I have the supplies in my trunk. I understand the urgency of needing them. But what were you going to do, Bobby, once you had what you needed? Have a nice chat with the demon?"

Bobby shook his head. "Hadn't thought that far ahead."

Joshua took Bobby's beer which he hadn't touched and started on that. "Well you should have."

"I believe I asked you some questions…"

"Right. The vamp hunter had a falling out with John."

"He should join the club. John's had a falling out with just about everyone," Bobby said. "Significance?"

"Elkins sent John on a hunt for the 'holy grail' of guns. Supposedly this colt can kill just about anything."

"I've heard about this gun… John was hoping it would kill the demon he'd been looking for," Bobby said, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. He didn't have time to be sitting around and talking about legends.

"I think it's here, in Manning," Joshua said. "I think that old bastard lied to John about where it was and then John figured it out. John knew the old man was full of shit and that is when they had their falling out. John never could prove that Elkins had the gun."

"And you are basing this on…"

"Rumors…Gut feeling," Joshua answered in all honesty.

"So let me get this straight," Bobby said, jabbing his finger into the table for emphasis. "You dragged me out to Manning…for a gun that may or may not exist, when John's boys are dying in Sterling," Bobby fumed. "So give me more than a gut feeling's reasoning on why I shouldn't shoot you?"

"'Cause I'm only trying to look out for a friend. Damn, Bobby, you're acting like I don't give a shit about them. I do. I'm here so you don't do something stupid."

"Like hunt down an imaginary gun?" Bobby growled.

"Give me one…two hours of your time. Those coordinates, last location of Elkins. Think he might have a cabin around these woods. He's been out of the hunt for a while. Paranoid. You two might get along."

Bobby glared at that, but his face softened when he soaked in the realization that he really didn't know what else he was going to do. He checked his phone, gut twisting at the blank screen. Mrs. Montgomery hadn't called yet. Dean had now been under for three hours or more…It made him sick. The thought about what only a few minutes under had done to Dean…The fatigue, and the way his nose had bled…Three hours and counting…

"Hey, Bobby?" Joshua snapped his fingers in front of his face.

Bobby shook his head to clear it and started to get up from the table. He needed to move or he'd go crazy. "What's the plan?"

* * *

_Ohio 1990_

_Breathe. _

_God that was all he wanted to do was breathe._

_The last thing Sam could remember was yelling after Dean on the bridge. He'd been telling him that he needed to slow down. His seven year old legs couldn't keep up. Dean had been stir crazy, needing air. The woods near their motel seemed like the ideal retreat while they waited for their father to return. His elder brother had been ticked that their father had left him alone to look after Sam. _

_Sam and Dean had fought. They'd butted heads over the TV remote and Dean had given up. Throwing his hands in the air he'd told Sam to watch himself and stalked out of the room. Sam had been following him…tagging along through the woods and asking him to come back._

"_Sam!" Dean had said, stopping on an old makeshift bridge over a river. "You're like my damn shadow."_

"_I'm sorry, Dean. Let me come with you. I'm bored, too." The last sentence was more of a plea than a statement. _

_Dean had looked back at him, pausing. Sam could see his face relax in relinquishment. His eleven year old shoulders had slumped as he'd given up trying to get away from his brother. _

_The bridge had pitched slightly, and Sam had watched Dean's eyes go wide. _

_That was before the freezing cold and stabbing pain that came with the inhalation of icy liquid. _

_Somehow he'd managed to claw his way back to the surface of the water, unable to draw air into his lungs more than spit water out of them. And then he was back under again, and being drug along without much other choice._

_The next time he came up, it was when he felt someone grab his shirt and lift him upward. That was when Sam was suddenly aware that Dean was with him in the water. Every time Dean tried to push him up out of the water, he himself was taken under._

_They struggled against current and their tiring limbs. Dean finally managed to stop them from moving further down the river when his back connected with a rock that was jutting just above the surface. He clung to Sam and to the slick surface of the stone, fingers ripping on the jagged edges where they could snag something of a grip. _

_Sam was able to hold on to Dean's shirt, coughing and gasping. Dean was trying to lift him up onto the rock. _

_Somehow Dean succeeded._

_Somehow Sam's fingers found a branch._

_Somehow they found themselves lying on the rocks alongside the river…heaving lung-fulls of water and dragging in oxygen like life force._

_Sam could hear a voice…Their father's voice calling them…._

_Sam found his own voice. "Dean…"_

_He couldn't find the voice he wanted to hear…_

"_Dean?"_

* * *

Sam shivered uncontrollably as he came around, cold and soaking wet. He couldn't make out where he was exactly. The floor was hard and cold under his back, but smooth. Linoleum? 

Sam could make out the subtle red glow of an EXIT sign at the end of the dark hallway where he was sprawled. He sat up and backed up against a wall, his bare feet slipping on the water that had collected beneath him. He was like a scared animal. Disoriented.

He was a mess. Not just the shivering flesh pressed against the concrete wall, but the things that were going through his mind. He'd remembered Dean being with him. Trying to help him pull himself back together. It was like Dean was helping everything back into focus. Memories, thoughts, perspectives…the truth…Sam's hard drive was being de-fragmented. But there had been purpose behind the fragmentation of his being. He hadn't wanted Dean to come looking for him…

With Dean's help, however, Sam had realized that he needed to try to be stronger than this... He'd been through a hell of a lot with Dean. The memories bringing that realization back to Sam. Whole. Complete…not quite. There was something still missing…

"Dean?"

All the memories hadn't been pleasant, but they'd had a consistency to them. Dean's presence. Sam's true self and purpose presented in the eyes of his brother and things long lost to Sam's mind…They'd held hope and reassurance of choice…

But something was missing still…

The last memory…

Fear…

Dean's fear?

"Dean!" Sam tried again, getting to his feet using the wall beside him for support

He looked around at the medicine carts and the stretchers that lined the hallway. This was a hospital…or something that reminded Sam of Plato's cave allegory. It was like the shell or shadow of the real thing. No definition…just dark shadows and silence, the deafening absence of anyone's presence.

_Stop…_

Dean's voice met Sam's ears. Muffled and distant. Sam spun around trying to figure out where the hell it had come from. Then Sam heard his voice, but the things that were said, he'd never uttered in his life.

_At age eleven. You two fell from a bad bridge over a river… Daddy didn't seem to care that you went in as well…_

_I said shut up!_

The last words from his brother's mouth reverberated through the hall ways, shaking Sam like an electric shock, forcing him away from the wall. He started down the hallway looking for the room where the voices were coming from. But they seemed to be coming from all around him and there. The voice changed…

_My father thinks nothing a sacrificing his followers for Sam…For the end game. Kind of like your father… uses you…_

Silence.

_You don't know my brother…_

_He didn't care if it cost you or your father a damn thing…_

Sam started to sprint, something inside of him twisting. He was starting to put the pieces together. Dean wasn't with him, because something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. These words didn't belong to Sam or any of his memories. They were Dean's. And he could feel the pain that Dean had felt at these words. Doubt. Somewhere along the way his brother had started to doubt, and this place was no longer in his control.

_You don't know him… You don't know a damn thing about my brother…_

There was another wave of pain that coursed through Sam and he picked up his pace. He needed to find Dean.

* * *

"This was the plan? Knock on his door?" Bobby looked at Joshua like he wanted to take another swing at him. 

He didn't get the chance as the front door to Elkin's house opened a crack and they were both greeted by two steely and fierce eyes beneath stringy grey hair.

"Yes?"

Joshua stepped in closer to the door. Bobby watched the look in Elkins' eyes become more wild and untrusting. "We are your friends in dark times," Joshua said.

Elkins looked back and forth between the two. "Exercitus noster est magnus, et propter  
numerum sagittarum nostrarum caelum non videbitis..."

Bobby could swear he heard the cocking of a gun behind the door. He knew the phrase. Cicero. He was starting to wonder if Joshua knew what the hell he was doing. Elkins had obviously flipped his lid, hiding behind doors with guns and talking about darkness blotting out the sun.

"In umbra, igitur, pugnabimus," Joshua said, giving it a second to sink in.

The door closed and Bobby thought they had been shut out for good. A complete waste of time. That was until the door eased open again and Daniel Elkins stepped to the side to let them in. Bobby noted the gun in the hunter's hand

Bobby moved into the main room and took in the newspaper covered walls and the smell of something spoiled. Bobby swatted at the flies that came at his face as they passed a table with food rotting on plates that Elkins had failed to clean up. There were books everywhere, lining the hallways and the rooms. Books were everywhere but on the bookshelves which were filled with all manner of things: Jars, stones, relics.

Elkins went into his study, wringing his hands nervously as he motioned for Joshua and Bobby to follow.

"Singer, right?" Elkins asked Bobby.

"Yeah…"

"Friend of Winchester," Elkins' tone was less than pleased. He started to fiddle with some of the notes on his desk and Bobby watched his hands shake slightly. "What can I do for you… gentlemen? Hunters, right?" He looked at Joshua. "You did your homework or you would have never gotten past the front door. John put you up to this?"

Joshua pursed his lips. "No. Others told me where to find you."

"And why would you want to find me?"

"We came to talk about the Colt," Joshua said. He'd started to walk the room and look at all of the newspaper articles fastened to the walls. This man had done a hell of a lot of research on something. Or maybe all of this was the result of years of different cases. Either way, the word obsessed screamed at Joshua from the withered edges of each paper.

"I'll tell you what I told John. I don't have it. Perhaps you should ask him what he knows about the gun."

Joshua flipped up an article about a college student who killed his family while home on break to see the crime scene photos. One huge bloody mess. He turned away. "See, we would…but John's dead."

There was a scoff from Elkins, whose eyes were still glued to his notes. "Imagine that. He is mortal. How did he go? Did he take his sons with him?"

Bobby didn't like the tone or the venom coming from this man. The falling out that he'd had with John must have been something to draw out a response like that. "We don't really know how he went. He was on a hunt after a demon."

"The demon?" Elkins asked. "His obsession finally swallow him?"

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "His boys are in trouble. We need that gun."

Elkins stopped writing something and looked up at Bobby, and then over at Joshua. "The Winchester brats are in trouble, and that means I should give you the gun. Do you see…tears in my eyes? Do you…you see my lip quivering?" He got to his feet and started for a stack of books, picking up the top book.

He was muttering to himself, talking about nonsense. Bobby caught the words "Eyes of Larissa."

Joshua came over to stand behind Bobby and watched Elkins sit back at his desk with his book, talking to himself. Joshua leaned down to whisper something in Bobby's ear. "I think 'Buffy' has lost it."

They could both see the book that was open. Devil's traps, the Key of Solomon, news articles, and chicken scratch that made John Winchester's journal look like perfect calligraphy. Elkins went over the pages with his fingers, still muttering to himself.

"John's sons…fire…they all didn't die by fire…single children families…except twins… Gallagher, Carey, Miller, Winchester…Don't fit…Winchester doesn't fit the pattern…John has two sons…"He looked up and past them, eyes going distant. Joshua moved to the desk and could pick up the faint murmurings coming from his lips.

"Live or die…live…die…let live…let die…"

"Hey," Joshua started, snapping his fingers in front of Elkins' face. "Think maybe you could pull yourself together for like five minutes."

Elkins looked up at Joshua, eyes coming back into focus. "Haven't slept in a few days…"

"Riiight," Joshua smirked. "What was all that about Winchester?"

"Did he die?"

Joshua threw up his hands. "Wack job! John? Yes, we covered this."

"No. The boy."

"Sam?" Bobby asked, leaning forward in his seat. After talking with John about the demon he was hunting, Bobby wanted to get his hands on whatever it was that Elkins was pouring over in that journal.

"Dean," Elkins replied, like that should be enough to explain things.

"We're trying to prevent their deaths," Bobby said.

"It's not up to you!" Elkins shot from the desk. He then leaned back in his seat pressing into his eyes with his fist. "It's not up to you…"

Joshua blinked a few times, looking back and forth between Bobby and Elkins. From what he'd heard, Elkins was paranoid, but not this crazy. Something had him shaken up.

"I take it this means you won't help us," Joshua said. "Last time. Where is the Colt, Elkins?"

Elkins shook his head laughing a little. "I wish John had never brought his curse to my doorstep. You don't get it…there's something coming…something…" He stopped to laugh. "Well it ain't good." His sarcastic smile fell. "The gun is mine. All I have against what is coming."

"What is that?" Bobby asked. "What's coming? 'Cause we've just established that you do have the gun."

Elkins just shook his head. "I don't give a damn what happens to his sons. You hear me? I don't give a shit!"

Joshua took hold of what hair Elkins had on top of his head and slammed his face down onto his desk. Bobby got to his feet at the sound of Elkin's skull connecting with the wood surface with a resounding crack. Elkins was out cold.

"What the hell did you do that for? He's the only one who knows where the gun is!"

"Sorry, got bored," Joshua shrugged it off. He then started to rip out the drawers in Elkins' desk. "We'll just look for it ourselves."

"Can't believe this," Bobby said, collecting the journal that Elkins had been looking through. He slipped it into his jacket pocket and started to help with the search. "He has friends, you know…hard to believe but…Dammit! You realize you just declared "war" on the vamp hunters."

There was a loud crash as Joshua brought down a book case. "Oh no, not crazy Elkins and his band of fang bangers."

"You're forgetting Walker," Bobby said darkly.

"Texas Ranger?"

"No, smart ass! Gordon Walker. Tell me, did Dean hang out around you a lot when he was a kid?"

"What? Not really. Some reason, John never really asked me to look after them." Joshua said this as he took up an axe and took it to the wall.

"Some reason…" Bobby sighed as he continued with the search.

An hour passed and they had a majority of Elkins' house ransacked. Bobby went back to the office where Elkins was still out. He'd been tied to his chair by Joshua. Even when he woke up, he wasn't going anywhere.

Bobby went to the wall behind Elkins' desk and looked over the articles there. He found an extremely worn one. All that was left of the photograph of a girl was her eyes. The article was faded beyond reading, but there was the name beneath the picture: Larissa.

"Eyes of Larissa. Son of a bitch."

He moved his hand under the article and felt a break in the wall. He pulled down the rest of the articles and found a section of the wall that came away. A safe was set inside the alcove there.

"Joshua!"

"Yeah," the younger hunter answered, sticking his head around the door to see what was up.

"Got any idea what the combination is?"

Joshua came over and fiddled with the knob. "Nope. Wait…narcissistic bastard." He rotated in a combination and the door came open.

"How did you know that?"

"Date of his first kill," Joshua said. "Been going through his journals."

Bobby took out the wooden box inside and opened it. The colt and five bullets. The gun was engraved with symbols that Bobby recognized from his studies in hunting demons. Just lifting it from the box, Bobby could tell immediately that there was something powerful about the metal and craftsmanship. Most beautiful damn thing Bobby had ever seen.

* * *

The voices had stopped a while ago, leaving Sam once again in the shadowy halls alone. He was starting to feel discouraged in his hunt for his brother, not sure what had gone wrong or how it was even possible for Dean to be there with him to begin with. His brother had helped him pull himself back together, but at what cost? Sam remembered every interaction with his brother in this place now that he was whole again. He remembered the room in Indiana and the blood pouring from his brother's wrists… 

What cost?

Sam's ears perked up as music made its way to where he was. It was faint, teasing his ears with a promise of something more than the seclusion of silence. Sam listened carefully, honing in on what he could swear was… Zeppelin?

"_The Battle of Evermore_?" Sam paused, listened and tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. He could hear it louder as he continued down the hallway, and eventually he found the source. A radio in one of the hospital rooms was playing the song he'd heard in the hallway.

Propped up against one of the walls was Dean. His head was resting on his chest and Sam noted the way that he was holding his hands crossed against his chest. Dean hadn't realized that Sam was in the room with him, and that worried Sam. He went to him, kneeling in front him, just as he lifted his head. He looked right through Sam at first and then recognition set into his eyes.

"Sam…just resting…mind started to drift…"

"Drifted to Zeppelin, huh?" Sam said gently. God, Dean looked like hell. He'd reach out and touch him if he didn't think that he'd break or disappear right then and there.

"I was going to…lie down on one of the beds…didn't make it…" Dean said absently, his eyes going to the radio. "That thing just started playing…was thinking 'bout Dad. Used to play this…at night…" Dean turned his head slightly as his face tightened, revealing more of the pain he was unsuccessfully hiding.

"Forget bedtime stories, when we were kids, Dad would just put on Zeppelin."

"Evermore…Rain Song…"Dean listed a few, his eyes glassing over more.

It was clear to Sam how Dean would think of their father and this song. Not only was Zeppelin one of their father's personal favorites, but one of the ways that he would calm down after a hunt. Many nights his brother and he would fall asleep in the back of their father's truck to the guitar coming from the truck cab window.

_Oh war is the common plight. Pick up your swords and fight…_

Sitting there with Dean, Sam could almost still feel the wind. He remembered when he would lay there in their father's truck bed, arms folded behind his head. He would listen to the music telling a story that he could swear was theirs.

_The sky is filled with good and bad that mortals never know..._

He could stills see Dean leaned back against the truck cab, playing with his knife mindlessly as they passed over miles of road, the last of the light dying out at the horizon. His lips would move with the words, and every once in a while Sam would be able to catch his voice.

_Oh, well, the night is long, the beads of time pass slow. Tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow…_

Sam would take in night zephyr, the sound of his brother's voice, and the feeling of being a part of something…something purposeful. Moments like that were rare. So damn rare._  
_  
_Ooh, bring it back. Bring it back..._

The radio stopped playing and Sam snapped out of his reverie to look back at the box. Why had it stopped? He turned back to his brother and saw his head had dropped onto his chest again. Dean being there was doing something to him. Even just remembering the night drive had taken something from Dean.

"Dean?"

Sam watched his brother wince and felt his stomach clench. He risked reaching out this time and took Dean's arm, pulling it away from his chest where it was pressed against his shirt. It came away sticky with blood.

"God…" His eyes met his brother's. He'd lifted them as soon as Sam had taken his arm. "Dean, how are you even here? What have you done?"

"I promised…" was all that Sam got in reply. However, he watched Dean's eyes fall to his wrists which were slowly seeping blood. Sam finally saw the sigil outlined by Dean's burnt and raised flesh. He didn't recognize it as anything he'd ever studied, but somehow he knew it was the link. The symbol charred into his brother's wrist was how Dean had found him and how Dean had pulled him back together. Just from watching his brother weaken, Sam knew that picking up the shattered pieces had cut Dean apart.

Sam let go of Dean's arm and shook his head, tears clinging to the edges of his eyes.

"Why?"

He breathed the question at first, quietly while he tried to still the anger that was rising in him. It wasn't anger for Dean. It was directed toward the twisted way things were working out. Sam had trapped himself there to die so Dean could live. It wasn't supposed to be the other way around.

"Stubborn…stupid…" Sam couldn't hold the tears "I'm not worth your life… Dammit, Dean, this place is killing you…"

"I'd rather die than go this alone…than do nothing…than give up on you, Sammy," Dean admitted. He closed his eyes and set his head back against the wall for a minute. When his eyes opened again, Sam was taken back by the panic in them "Wake up, Sam…" Dean pleaded. "You don't belong to him."

Sam lowered his head, not sure if he believed that yet. But his brother was dying, and he needed to get him out of there. Sam looked around the room, like he expected an exit to appear out of thin air. He was whole again, wasn't he? How the hell was he supposed to just wake up?

"I don't know how, Dean."

Dean's face fell for a second. Sam could tell that he was thinking that he'd be banking on Sam being able to pull out of this with his help. And now, with barely any strength left, his brother was telling him that he didn't know how to get them out of this.

Dean groaned as he sat forward and started to get to his feet. Sam put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Dean, you're not in any condition to…"

"Help me up," Dean grunted as he leaned into Sam.

Sam took Dean's arm above the damaged wrists and started to help him up. His hand brushed the sigil and for a second Sam could no longer see his brother or the hospital room.

He saw Dean, age four, standing in a hallway. His father was passing Sam as a baby off to him, telling him to take Sam him outside. Sam could see and smell the flames from the nursery that his father ran back into. He could see the determination in his very young brother's face as he turned and ran, baby in his arms.

Sam shut his eyes and when he opened them he was looking at Dean again in the hospital room. Dean was returning his stare, confused.

"You never told me about that…" Sam said, smiling weakly. "I didn't know you carried me out of the fire that night."

"Didn't want you to get all weepy on me," Dean smirked, trying to stand up straight instead of leaning into his brother.

Dean's legs gave out and Sam had to keep him standing by hooking his arms under his. They couldn't stay that way for long. Sam had to lower both of their weights to the ground slowly.

"Dammit…" Dean wheezed.

Dean hated his own weaknesses. But Dean's definition of weakness was blown way out past the normal standards. Sam had always known that about his brother. The way that Dean could take hits and just keep going. He never liked to admit that he was unable to keep going.

In that moment, Sam knew that Dean's utterance was a curse on himself. He was resting against Sam now, breaths coming in shallow bursts. His muscles jumped as he strained to try again, to push up away from Sam and stand on his own.

Sam stopped him. "Let me carry you, Dean. You don't have to do this alone. I don't have to do this alone…"

Dean looked like he was about to protest, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he thought over how much strength he had left. He lowered his head in a half nod and Sam slid to his side. He took Dean's arm over his shoulder and they stood together.

Sam took as much weight as Dean would give him and they slowly made their way back to the hall. Sam had no idea what way was the way to go. Maybe the exit he'd seen when he'd first awoken- the most glaringly obvious answer-the only answer he had.

Dean stumbled a few times, but Sam kept him steady, trying not to rush him, but wanting to get him away from this place before he got worse. He saw the exit sign at the end of the hall and started for it, heart beating faster with a hope that they'd both wake up from this nightmare on the other side. He heard his brother let go a short laugh at the sight, the irony of the exit sign not lost on him in his condition.

"Fucking cute…" Dean sighed as they staggered toward it.

They made it to the door and Sam was grinning like an idiot before he pushed open the door. White light blinded them both, but they continued on in hopes of escaping the world of shadows.

* * *

Mrs. Montgomery drummed her nails impatiently against the table. She looked at her watch and then up at Sam and Dean in their hospital beds. Bobby had been away for almost six hours. Dean had been under for longer. 

She took to stroking the side of her coffee cup and sighed. Bored. The only thing making the wait worth it was watching one Winchester fade slowly and painfully while the other was starting to get stronger. Sam's vitals had been steadily rising for the past few hours and that was good news for her.

Karen looked at her cell phone and the number that Bobby had given her. He'd be worrying, and had no way to contact her since he'd hastily given his number to her without waiting for hers in return. But he'd asked for a call when Dean was conscious again, and so far the boy had held out longer than she'd given him credit for.

"Sorry, hunter, you never asked for an hourly update," she said to the phone. She then looked at Dean. "But that might be something Karen would do. Sweet. helpful, Karen." Her eyes flashed yellow for a second before the door opened and one of the nurses poked her head in to check in on them.

"Still all right?" she asked.

"Karen" was getting sick of the tediousness of these interruptions. They always asked about Dean. She waited for it…

"You sure he's okay?" the nurse asked, eyes falling to Dean's bed with concern.

"He's fine," Karen said absently, silently putting into the young girl's mind that she should turn around and leave. The nurse suddenly lost interest, expression blank, and closed the door.

"Stupid animal," Karen said. She then got to her feet and started for Dean's bed again. She stood bed side and looked down on the boy. He looked pale and ill, his life draining from his body as easily as the sweat was collecting on his brow. He shivered, flesh trembling, even though he was burning up. She refused to cover him with anything. She refused to give his tiring body any form of comfort. If she did that, she couldn't watch him writhe and there wasn't any pleasure in that. She put a hand on his face and he grimaced in pain at her touch.

"You've done well." Her voice dripped with twisted praise. "You've almost served your complete purpose. Almost…"

Karen looked over at Sam, smiling at the normal blood pressure and healthy pulse. "You tried to hide from me, Samuel…" She then smiled as she sensed the time had come for Dean to wake up. "Time to let go," she said gently, setting both hands on the sides of his face. He'd locked himself to the connection with Sam, but she had the power to rip apart that bond, especially in his current weakened state.

At her touch, Dean's eyes flew open and he arched his back, his mouth opened in a silent scream. She watched him clamp his eyes shut, body taut and rigid as he was overtaken by the shock and pain of being ripped from Sam's connection. She smirked, finding the sight amusing and let go of him. His body relaxed, and he stared upward, empty and spent. A single tear from the pain slipped down his face.

His nose started to bleed, the blood running down the sides of his face in small rivulets. His eyes remained open and absent. He was close to gone, but she waited, finger poised above the call button. She took his blood between her fingers and rubbed them together feeling the slickness of the life sustaining substance.

"Well done."

* * *

a/n: Latin Translations: 

Veritas Vos Liberabit (The Truth Will Set You Free).

Exercitus noster est magnus, et propter numerum sagittarum nostrarum caelum non videbitis (Rough translation:Our armies are great, and the number of our arrows will block out the sun).

"In umbra, igitur, pugnabimus" (In shadow, therefore, we will fight).

Futuo (Ha! Not translating that one. It is Dean…think you can figure that one out.)

Special thanks goes to Mady Bay again for her editing skills. I also want to thank Gaelicspirit for her encouragement. This chapter was written while I received some bad news, and her words revived inspiration. Thank you, everyone who reviews this mess. I really appreciate the time you all take. Couldn't do this without you.

Of significant note: This chapter was originally titled: Crouching Dean, Hidden Sam, as Gaelic suggested I put my Chinese class to good use and write this chapter in Mandarin. laugh Was so not going to happen. : P Hope you all enjoyed. Leave some love.


	14. Abandon All Hope

Chapter 14: Abandon All Hope…

_Hell is empty and all the devils are here. -William Shakespeare_

_Flectere si nequeo superos, Achaeronta movebo (If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell)-Virgil, The Aeneid_

Wrong. The silence that met his ears and the shadows that greeted his eyes were unbearably wrong. Sam could remember walking through the exit with Dean, could remember walking into blinding warmth, but his eyes hadn't opened to the real world. Instead, he'd stepped through the consuming light, only to come upon more darkness. He was still amongst the world of shadows. He was in _the hospital_, the poor silhouette of the place that his body resided, but his mind could not reconnect with. He was still trapped in a place that lacked any presence but his own. He was alone…

No. Not quite.

Sam felt the cavernous familiarity of the presence before he saw it. He felt the cold snake through his being, tangling itself like fingers in his hair, and Sam couldn't help but shudder. This presence was keeping him there, and he was sick of the game. Sam managed to shake the parasitic apparition, the presence within, before looking back for its source. Standing at the far end of the hallway was darkness embodied, dead light coming from the fire yellow orbs that were its eyes.

Sam stepped slowly back through the exit and into the hallway, not sure why he wasn't running away. He wasn't sure what propelled him forward, each step taken in confidence, until he was standing halfway between the Demon and the exit. He was getting out of there. This _thing_ couldn't stop him.

"Sammy."

The way the Demon said his name made the muscles in Sam's jaw twitch with ire. He tightened the fists at his side and wanted one shot. Just one damn shot at this thing.

"Good to see you all in one piece," the Demon said.

It had no definite voice; masculine and feminine, one voice and several all at the same time. The form It had chosen was of a man hidden in shadow, like when they'd first met in Sam's mind. When It had made Sam watch as It tore apart one of Its followers…The demon who'd impersonated Steve Montgomery had called It, "Father" while choking on its own blood.

"It's Sam. You can cut the bullshit. Where's Dean?" Sam fumed.

It sighed. "Disappointing. We're right back where we started. You're really going to try to convince me that somehow you are the exception to the rule?"

Sam had merely blinked and the Demon was right next to him, having closed thirty feet faster than Sam had been able to register. It then circled him like it was measuring him up. Sam followed him with an intense glare, holding his ground and trying to quell the innate fear that was trying to break free within him.

"Where. Is. Dean?"

"Ah, Dean. I should thank him. Putting back the pieces of the 'Sam puzzle.' I know you tried to die…tried to hide from me. That is why this act is the real bullshit. You fear everything that you are. "

"Answer the question!"

Sam thought for sure he saw the yellow orbs shrink into slits, and the air was becoming thicker and infused with heat.

"You should have seen him, Sammy. Seizing like an epileptic. The blood…He thought he was saving you, giving all he had to try to get you back. But the human mind is fragile. Even more so the human flesh. Animals can't walk among gods and your brother can't survive even a taste of what we are, Samuel."

"What did you do to him?"

Sam heard the smirk. He didn't have to see it. "He served a purpose. He led me right to you."

Sam lashed out. He didn't think about what he was doing until it was too late. He threw a punch, and the Demon vanished into a black smoke. Sam's fist hit air with an unsatisfied lurch as the muscles in his arms recoiled from the force of the exertion. He didn't have time to recover before the dark mist re-materialized and he felt a blow to his midsection, the force sending him into the door behind him.

Sam's back connected with the steel bar, and the door slammed open into one of the stairwells. Sam tried to grab at the railing as he went down, but he missed and fell. Tumbling uncontrollably down the stairs, he landed in an awkward heap at the bottom.

The Demon was there before Sam could regain his breath, and before Sam could find the air to groan, the Demon had him by his throat and slammed back against the wall. His back exploded in pain as the fresh bruising and lacerations there, created by his trip into the door, met with the rough brick.

"See, that right there, was just plain stupid. You've been raised by two very trigger happy individuals, Samuel. It's all impulse and brute strength." The Demon poked Sam in the skull between the brows. "Got to use your head, kid! That's why I gave you the gift."

"Why? So I will kill? Turn into some kind of killer?"

The being sneered, at least that was what Sam could make out among the shadow of a face. "You've got no vision. You've been talking with one of my followers. It's lacking in creativity, don't you think? 'The devil made me do it' blah, blah, blah…But you…no, Sam, you are destined for things beyond something my 'son' could conceive."

"I'm all ears," Sam growled. "You gave me this 'gift'?"

A laugh was Its only response.

Sam wanted answers and the thing's amusement burned at him. "You have a captive audience for your grandiose monologue."

It laughed and tightened Its grip on Sam's throat, quieting him and watching him try to draw in breaths, feeling the muscles contract in futile spasms. "Not yet…You trying to fill your lungs with oxygen in _this place _proves you're not ready for the truth. You're bleeding and bruising, when you could end that kind of weakness. Pathetic. Time you woke up!"

The Demon ripped Sam from the wall and threw him down the second flight of stairs. Sam again landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom. His ribs were aching, and his limbs were on fire where they had caught and tore open on each stair. He held his ribs and tried to get up, but he was dizzy and disoriented. Not even the adrenaline kick he could feel running through him was making him move any faster. He put out a hand to start to drag himself toward the door, but the Demon stepped on it, suddenly right between Sam and where he needed to go.

The Demon crushed Sam's hand underfoot. "I will rectify my mistakes."

* * *

"You've gone over that damn thing a million times." Joshua was leaning against the window in Dean's hospital room and looking through the blinds. He exhaled loudly. "We need to just get this over with. The longer we wait…" 

"You don't think I know that!" Bobby barked from his chair. He dropped Elkins' journal onto his knees and glared at the younger hunter. He was overeager – with good reason – but Bobby had already screwed up by leaving Dean alone, and now he was trying to repair the damage.

He'd returned to find Dean had gone into a series of seizures. He was out cold now, weakened by what the connection to Sam had put him through. Bobby wasn't quite sure how the sigil worked, but he knew it was more than a mental connection. Soul and flesh were bound to the cause as well…Or else the guide couldn't be of any use to the one who needed help. There was no ground in reality without the body, and the soul was the true guide of both parties. Skilled priests could do this for short bursts of time. Dean had been under for hours…

Bobby cursed himself for leaving. He cursed himself for not trying to bring Dean back before he left…Coming back and finding him like he had…the blood…Dean's wrists and nose…and Sam…

"Bobby!" Joshua commanded him back from the memories and back to the task at hand. "You're not helping him. You're not helping Sam. You're sitting there, trying to decipher the ramblings of a mad man."

"Dean's name is in this book. Sam's name is in this book. I want to know why. Maybe there is something we missed…"

"The point…you missed the point. He will try to help Sam again and he will die. So your job is to come with me now and finish this."

Bobby spread open the journal and held it out to Joshua. "There are hundreds of names there. The ones that are circled have newspaper articles jammed in here, along with detailed crime scene reports. They murdered family, friends, and those who survived…won't stop talking about how the murderer, someone who they once loved, kept talking about a war and how the glory would not belong to the yellow-eyed man."

"So these people were seriously disturbed," Joshua said, taking the book.

"They were possessed. Do you see those numbers? I am looking at reports here that state witnesses saw black eyes."

"What happened to those who were possessed?" Joshua asked, keeping his voice low and moving to shut the door.

"Dead…all of them. Freak accidents. At least two of the circled names actually killed each other," Bobby said, taking the journal back and looking for the report. When he found it he thrust it in Joshua's face. "One lived in Arkansas, the other in Washington. Never met. Had no motive. Just met in Arizona and took each other out."

"The demons are fighting each other?" Joshua asked. His eyes grazed through the article while he rubbed at his chin stubble.

"Why these people?" Bobby asked, jamming his finger onto the names. "Why go after them?"

"You know they go after people who open themselves up to…"

"It can't be that simple. This many possessions. This many demons walking among us. Listen to this…" Bobby flipped to a marked page and started to read one woman's transcribed therapy session after surviving her husband's attack.

"_Jeremy kept talking about some sort of war. Said he'd been chosen. Been given a gift_." Bobby stopped and ran his finger down the page. "_He could move things with his mind, and he touched a dead bird in our yard, and brought the thing back to life. I know that sounds crazy, but he was…different._" Bobby skipped some more, clicking his tongue as he went. "This one session has her quoting her husband saying:_ There are more like me, the chosen, but they have yet to awaken to all that they are. They sleep awaiting the father, but we have waited long enough. We are the catalyst._"

Joshua shifted uncomfortably. "The hell does all that mean?"

"I think John's demon is the yellow-eyed man."

"You are basing this off of…?"

"Elkins said he wished John had never brought his curse to his doorstep. Sam's name is circled. And Sam hasn't killed anyone. Neither have Gallagher, Miller, or Carey. Elkins was postulating a theory. John was searching for nursery fire children. There were four in 1983. Elkins has them researched more than the others. He's got them highlighted up and down this book and he has "dross" written next to each of them."

"Dross?"

"At first I thought he had something against them. Calling someone dross is equivalent to calling them human scum. But what do you do when you want to purify metal, to get rid of the dross, the impurities?"

"You put it through fire."

"You put it through fire," Bobby repeated. "Was he thinking that these four needed to be…perfected somehow?"

"Wait…Sam is one of these… 'chosen'?"

Bobby exhaled and looked at Joshua with a somber pleading in his eyes. He was asking him not to say anything to anyone with that look. He was asking Joshua to stick with him until he figured this out. "Dean told me that it was a lower level demon that went after Sam to begin with. The damn thing said Sam was 'special.' Then somehow, John's demon pops out of the damn woodwork and we suddenly found ourselves trying to get Sam back from it. You tell me there's no link."

Joshua shook his head. "Shit…" He started to pace again. "What about Dean? You said his name is in there."

"Just his name. A few times he has 'first born', and 'brother.' And that Elkins had been babbling about how Winchester didn't fit the pattern. All the other names are single children or twins."

Joshua mulled over that, still as restless as ever. "If you think Sam is related somehow to all those names, we have to go. Now."

His last outburst about the urgency of the situation disturbed the sleeping body in the hospital bed. Bobby returned his gaze to Dean, and watched the boy come back around. He stirred slowly, a soft groan of pain the only sound he made before his lids peeled open with some effort.

Dean didn't know which was worse: the pain and the weakness that has set in all over his body, or the hollow feeling that something was wrong gnawing away within him. The panic that had set into Dean's mind encompassed Sam and Dean's inability to feel their connection anymore.

Walking through that door, the exit from the prison of Sam's mind, Dean had felt the pain he was in start to ebb away, and had felt his strength return. The light and the support of his brother giving him hope that they would both see the other side of this. They would make it out of this mess and put Colorado behind them. He'd promised to look for answers with Sam. He'd promised that together they would figure things out.

He'd been so sure that they were going to make it.

That was until the pain came back and hit him full force, ripping through him and drawing him out of that world, only to plunge him into a world without consciousness. Which, now waking up to the aftermath, had been a brief gift. Now he was back among the "real," and feeling the cost with every burning inhale and exhale. Even the voices felt like razor blades, grating through his head.

"Hey, kid. Scared us shitless."

That one was Bobby. But Dean could see two blurry forms in his room. Wait. Three? One to the left, the right, and one by the window…

"Why do I feel like you backed over me with your truck?" Dean croaked out, closing his eyes for a second before re-opening them to a slightly fresher vision. No. He'd been wrong. Only two people in the room… "Where's Sam?"

Bobby's lips thinned. "Not out of the woods yet. Dean, what you did…"

Dean turned to look at Bobby, who he seemed to be waking up to a lot these days. He would have inserted a joke if he could think straight, but all he could do was focus on what was being said. Bobby sounded sorry. Why? Because of the sigil and the lock? Because he'd gone without telling him?

"I'm not sorry," Dean said. He wasn't sorry at all. They had been so close. He knew he could get Sam back if he could just have one more chance. His eyes lifted to the other presence in the room. He recognized him from somewhere. A friend of his father?

"No…but I am." Bobby had responded to Dean's statement. He looked over at Joshua and motioned for the box on the table.

Bobby took the box from Joshua, his heart heavy with what he was about to tell Dean, but he had to show him hope first. Bobby nodded at the scruff bearing hunter that had passed off the box. "Dean, meet Joshua. He's come to help us with Sam. I have something to show you."

Dean continued to keep his eyes on the other man. He was younger than Bobby, and Dean kept studying his coarse face for some sort of recognizable feature. He gave up shortly after. His mind hurt, and if Bobby said he was a friend, that was good enough for him.

The box was opened and Dean sat up slowly until he could see its contents. An antique looking colt revolver. Five bullets. Dean ran his hand along the side and felt the markings there. He studied the cold metal indentations with his fingertips, and felt something else there beyond the etchings. Something powerful.

"A colt. Your dad was looking for this," Bobby said as he watched Dean look it over.

"A gun?" Dean looked up, confused.

"Can kill anything, kid," Joshua said, coming behind Bobby to have another look himself.

"Supernatural anything?" Dean asked. His eyes re-fixed on the gun that his father had been searching for. As he looked at the gun he could feel his father's presence. This gun put a part of him back in the fight.

"Yeah," Joshua nodded. "Five shots to get the job done. Your daddy wanted to find a way to kill this thing. I'm pretty sure that isn't a problem anymore."

Dean picked it up, but had trouble holding it. His fingers could only close loosely about the grip. He could forget about compressing the trigger if it came to that. He returned it to Bobby and was about to ask him how he'd managed to get this into the hospital, but something in Bobby's eyes stopped him. Dean didn't like the way that Bobby was staring through him. Their eyes met and there was something there that scared Dean. The older hunter's eyes held news that had yet to be spoken.

Bobby closed the box and handed it back to Joshua.

"Dean, I'm sorry…"

"For what?" Dean asked.

The pause that followed was so long that Dean wondered if he'd actually asked the question or if it hadn't made it past his lips. He watched Bobby's face contort as he searched for the words. He rubbed a hand down his face and finally gave Dean what he didn't know how to give him easily.

"Sam's missing."

Dean wasn't sure he'd heard him correctly. He was hoping he hadn't heard him correctly. "Missing?" he asked darkly.

Bobby nodded, and Dean could tell he wasn't going to like the rest of this conversation. If Dean's wrists were in better shape, Bobby would have already been on the floor with a broken nose.

"When were you going to tell me? When I found an empty bed?" Dean growled. "Shit, Bobby, you know this means one of two things. He's back to himself and running away or something got…"

Dean felt dizzy and had to stop. He didn't like option two much anyway. Option two was that something had gotten to his brother. No. Option two wasn't an option because he refused to let it be one.

_You don't belong to him…_

"You need to let me take care of this," Bobby said. "We'll get Sam back. We will, Dean. But you can't go after him. Not in your condition."

"Like hell I'm staying here!" Dean shouted. He was still trying to figure out how everything had gotten out of hand so fast.

"Dean, connecting with him is killing you." Bobby was trying his hand at pleading with Dean. He should have known that wouldn't have gone over well.

"Sam is my brother. I can't back down from my promises. You can't stop me from coming." Dean was already trying to pull the IV from his arm, when he heard a click and felt metal encircling his wrist.

"You're kidding right?" Dean asked, lifting his left hand and jangling the handcuff that was now fastened to the lower rung of the railing.

"For your own good, kid. Let us take care of this."

"I can get out of this," Dean said in a challenging manner. His eyes warning Bobby that he'd consider forgiving this betrayal if he let him go within the next five seconds.

"I'm sure. You could press the call button. But I have the key. You could pick the lock. But Sam took your car." Dean's eyes widened at that and he swore, but Bobby continued. "You could start searching for him, but nobody knows where he is, kid."

Bobby looked at the floor. "I will find your brother, Dean. And I will do everything in my power to make this right again. But I won't just let you run to your death, you hear me?"

Bobby knew that he would have to just accept the way that Dean's eyes burned into him. He would have to accept the role of betrayer that was being assigned him at that moment by Dean. He would have to make this better.

He followed Joshua into the hall, hearing Dean yell a plethora of swear words in his direction. They were muffled by the door as it closed between them.

"That went well," Joshua said as he nodded at one of the nurses walking by.

Bobby couldn't look up from the floor as he listened to John's boy in the room behind him. He didn't have a choice. Dean had asked for his help, and this was how he was going to help him. He started at a strident pace for the parking garage, Joshua in tow with the colt.

"I think I know how to find Sam," Bobby said as he opened the door to his truck.

"Good. 'Cause I've got jack shit."

* * *

The Impala slammed to a halt before the sidewalk of a local convenience store, the front wheel jumping the curb and startling a woman who was trying to walk to her own car with her children. She ushered her two small boys away from the poorly parked vehicle, staring down its operator with intent. 

The driver laughed at how she'd been startled and then put down the window, releasing the thrash of guitars and heavy back beat onto the world. He returned the glare with a smile and nodded toward her sons. Under his look, she moved them faster. Why did he always receive that kind of response? He'd wondered if it would be different given the new "packaging." He shrugged as that was not the case.

"Sam" leaned down to open Dean's glove box and rummage through it. After shuffling through fake identification cards, he sighed and slammed the box shut when he couldn't find what he was looking for.

Possession was below him, and he rarely inhabited the stinking, slowly decaying flesh of humans. However, when inhabiting flesh, there was one pleasure that he liked to indulge in. Something he thought for sure the oldest Winchester would have laying around somewhere. Much to his disappointment, Dean wasn't much of a smoker.

Sam clucked his tongue in disapproval and looked up at the small store in front of him. He needed to pass some time before calling the owner of the car, and this body needed to stretch its legs.

Inside the store, Sam made his way toward the counter and leaned into it, signaling his desire for some assistance. However, the employee there didn't look up at him or acknowledge his presence. He was too busy looking at a motorcross magazine. Sam knew there was Playboy slipped inside of it.

"Can I get some smokes?" he asked wearily, pointing to the brand he wanted. The guy gave him a 'be with you in one second' glance and Sam shook his head. Cigarettes weren't worth such meaningless and wasteful interactions. "Try the girl three pages ahead."

The guy looked up startled that Sam knew what he was looking at, and much to Sam's amusement flipped a few pages as suggested. The guy smiled like the addicted simpleton that Sam knew he was and then closed the magazine. It was amazing how predictable humans were.

"What can I do for you?"

And apparently just as mentally incapacitated.

He didn't bother wasting his breath to repeat himself. He merely pointed again, listlessly. The guy set down a few packs and Sam took them, shoving them into his pockets. He then took out his lighter and started to light one right there in front of the guy.

"You can't…"

"I just did. You have a nice day…" Sam said after blowing smoke in the guy's face. He then tapped the man's name badge before leaving. "Hal."

"You can't just not pay, freak job."

Sam stopped, took another long drag, and then he returned to the counter and put the cigarette out on the guy's magazine.

"Go back to page twenty-three. Enjoy the woman there who'd never give you a second look, 'cause we both know the only women you've ever had were paid for that kind of attention, and ignore me like you were two minutes ago."

Sam then tucked the cigarette in the guy's shirt pocket and patted it into his chest. Smiling to himself, he started to walk back to the Impala. He knew that if this guy was smart-which he wasn't-he'd leave it alone; he'd do as Sam suggested. However, when did they ever listen?

"Hey, asshole!" the man's angry voice shouted after him and then there was the sound of a shotgun being pumped.

Sam lowered his head in mock defeat before a smile twisted into place. Damn, he loved it when he was right. "Go for it," he growled, looking over his shoulder to challenge Hal.

Hal hesitated, his finger trembling on the trigger. It was a sad sight. One Sam intended to help put the man out of his misery over. Sam looked around the store to see if anyone else was watching this. He was sad to see that there was no one there but Hal and himself. That was no fun. Sam sighed.

"You're worthless, Hal. Can't even pull the trigger."

Hal shook even more at that, his features tightening in acceptance of the veracity of those words, and then he slowly turned the gun around on himself. Sam turned and exited the building just as gun discharged.

* * *

Under normal circumstances, Dean wouldn't have had a problem with breaking free from the handcuffs that had him under forced bed rest. Normally, he was free within just a few seconds if he could find the right tool to work with. Paper clips for instance. However, his father's journal was across the room from him. There was nothing in the drawers to his right or to his left, and if that wasn't enough, his hands, due to his wrists, were almost useless. 

Dean exhausted himself looking for something to use to get the handcuffs off. He could push the button, just like Bobby had challenged him to, but that would have nurses raining down from only God knew where with their form of "help." They would want to look him over and ask him a million times if he needed anything. Dean didn't know what had happened after his connection with Sam was broken, but he could tell by the way that Bobby had acted and looked, that he had walked too close to the brink for everyone's liking. He didn't need more people staring at him like he was going to break in half if he moved.

His strength was returning slowly. It still took a great amount of energy to move, and every limb felt heavy. His head was the worst – pulsating now and then with strong surges of blood. He felt achy and swollen. His body had betrayed him after his conversation with Bobby. He'd expended too much energy to chew him out and had woken up hours later, only to realize that he'd blacked out.

He couldn't waste anymore time. Not with Sam out there somewhere. Not when he knew that if he let his brother's trail get too cold, he could lose him forever. He was out of options though. There was nothing within arm's reach that could be used to pick the cuffs.

Dean lay back against the propped up pillows and rested for a few seconds to think. He lay there letting the pain killers soothe out the aches and temporarily diminish the fever and pain that had infiltrated every inch of his body. He was grateful for the blissful ignorance that analgesics always presented to the flesh. They gave him the false feeling that he was better than he was, and right now, that was what he needed. He needed to think that if he asked his body to move, it would.

He lifted his left hand and tried to compress the fingers there into a fist. They clawed and then stopped as the wrist started to shake the rest of his hand with pain. He tried his right, and was pleasantly surprised to see them close completely around one another, with only a twinge of pain ghosting along his synapses. But then again…the IV was directly inserted into that arm…

Dean stared for a second at his own skin and the metal protruding there, realization taking a second to kick him in the face.

_Holy shit!_

Dean smacked himself mentally as he realized he could use the IV needle to pick his cuffs. The damn thing had to be a freaking twelve gauge.

Twenty minutes later Dean was out of bed and dressed. Bobby had left a bag of his clothes in the closet. No weapons. Nothing but ripped jeans and a few dark T's. He was grateful for that at least. He wasn't about to go looking for Sam with his ass hanging out the back of a hospital gown.

He found two thick leather bands that he occasionally wore just for the hell of it on his wrists. Today they'd serve the purpose to cover his healing wounds and bind them tight to keep the pain from motion down as much as he could. Left hand useless, he had to use his teeth and a whole hell of a lot of patience to secure them.

He couldn't find his spare cell phone in the bag, and wondered if Bobby had done something with it like he had the weapons. Before he could start for the door, however, he heard it go off and stopped. Dean started to look for it and found it finally in a pocket near the base of his bag. He saw Sam's cell on the caller ID and immediately answered.

"Sam?"

There was silence, just breathing, and Dean felt his stomach drop again. "Sammy? If you're there and you need my help, you've got to let me know somehow…"

"Dean…"

Scared? Hurt? Worried? Dammit what was that in his voice?

"Dean…I don't know where I am…" Well, that wasn't a good start. Dean didn't know where his brother was and if Sam didn't have a clue…

"Sam, are you hurt? Can you see anything that would tip you off to where you are?"

"I think I hit my head…or someone did...dizzy… I'm in a…a church…I think…God, Dean…what happened? How did I get here?"

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek as he opened the door to his room and made his way toward the parking garage. He was going to try to avoid as much attention as he could, knowing that the nurses would be out in full force if they knew he was up. He stepped inside one of the stairwells, his voice echoing harshly against the walls as he went.

"A church. A church…anything more than that, dude? There are a lot of those."

"It's dark…I've got the light from the cell phone. Place looks like it's falling apart…roof has caved in…doesn't look like anyone's been here since...the Dark Ages …"

Dean smirked at that, but then stopped to rest against the wall as the floor in front of his appeared to be moving. He laid back into the cinderblock surface and closed his eyes for a second, willing his body to keep standing there on the stairs.

"Still need more, Sam," Dean said. He then pushed off the wall and kept going. His pace slowed to conserve energy. He made it to the parking garage and started to look for the easiest thing to hot wire. He needed an old car…something that wouldn't take too much effort to remove the paneling from…

"Oh, and thanks for stealing my car, man."

"I did what?" He then heard a groan of realization. "Your car keys are in my pocket…Wait…I found a bible."

"Really? In a church?" Dean replied and heard his brother emit a short laugh.

"Funny." A pause. "Property of Gardens of Memory…Sterling, Colorado."

Dean breathed his relief. "You're still in Sterling. Just stay put. I'm coming to you."

* * *

Karen seemed happy to see them, looking up from the stove to smile sweetly and tell them to go wash up in the back. And for a moment, standing there in her kitchen, watching her work diligently to make them dinner, he felt a pang of regret for what he was about to do. 

She hadn't chosen this.

Bobby shifted nervously from where he stood, eyes going to the table where he saw two guests he hadn't been expecting to be there. The two men at the table watched Bobby and Joshua in silence, drinking from their mugs and leaning back in their seats lazily.

"This is Silas and Jack," Karen said, motioning to the men. "They're helping me put that barn back up." She tasted her soup and seemed satisfied, putting the spoon down by the sink and wiping her hands off on her apron.

"Well, you two going to wash up or what? I bet you're both hungry and exhausted. You have no idea how relieved I was to hear Dean's going to be just fine."

Joshua gave Bobby a somber, 'are you sure about this?' look. Bobby nodded and Joshua backed up to the door, smiling at the two there. "Uh, actually. Silas, Jack…I was wondering if maybe you two could help me with the truck, before we all sat down for the evening." He slapped Bobby on the back. "This guy is about as useless as tits on a man under a hood."

Bobby shot him a glare and then shook his head. He wasn't so sure that Dean and Joshua hadn't crossed paths. Bobby watched Silas and Jack follow Joshua back out through the screen door and then went into the wash room behind the kitchen. Unscrewing the cap on his whiskey flash, he took a sip in front of the mirror in the poorly lit room. He knew what was coming and what he'd have to do. He had to psyche himself up and focus on the task at hand.

After running some water over his face, Bobby stepped out into the hall and saw Karen standing there, looking right into him. It startled him at first. He hadn't even heard her approach. Her head was cocked to the side in curiosity, the knife she'd been using to cut vegetables, tapping against her thigh.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Something's been bothering me since I got back earlier today. Something I know I shouldn't have missed…but I did…and the cost..."

Her concerned and curious expression only deepened and the lines in her face grew darker. "What? What did you miss?"

"Can I ask you something?" Bobby asked, eyes watching the knife twitch in the hand at her side.

"Sure," she said.

"How do you feel about the nomine Patris, et Fili, et Spiritus Sancti?"

Karen flinched; her eyes swirled in darkness before she could hide the reaction. In that second Bobby took note: Black eyes. Not yellow. Shit.

"Yeah…that's what I thought," he said just before she lunged at him, knife swinging toward his chest. He grabbed her wrist and twisted the blade from her hands before he swung her into the bathroom.

She stumbled back into the sink, grabbing the edge to balance herself, and stared him down like an animal. Her eyes were now fully black, revealing the nature of the creature within her. She screamed at him, an inhuman noise that Bobby never found he could get used to.

She started for him again, using the sink to push off from. Bobby had the cap from his holy water flash off and doused her with it in one quick flick of his wrist. It burned her, steam rising from her soaked blouse and apron. She screamed and he watched her stagger back again.

Bobby then grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it shut quickly. It shuddered violently as she slammed her body into it repeatedly. He pulled a bag of salt and dust from his jacket pocket and lined the bathroom threshold with it before stepping away.

He watched the door shake and jar with every forceful blow. For a moment all he could do was listen to her hiss and scream; the guttural noises making him step away with the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. It froze the blood in his veins and momentarily paralyzed him.

That had once been a warm woman. A woman who had once had a family. A woman who knew nothing about the supernatural world of which she'd just been made a slave.

He waited until the demon realized that there was no way out of the bathroom and it stopped beating the body of Mrs. Montgomery against the door. He listened for any more noises and looked back toward the kitchen and the screen door. Joshua was out there alone with Silas and Jack.

* * *

Dean leaned against his new "rental car," the stolen P.O.S. from the hospital parking lot, and looked up the hillside in front of him through the wrought iron gates. He blinked close his lashes to clear the water collecting there from the light rain that had started to fall. He couldn't see far up the path since the sun had set and night was upon Sterling. He could, however, make out what the beam of his flashlight illuminated through the rain and shadows; the silhouettes of tombstones and statues. He could also see the candle light in the church windows. 

Dean wasn't stupid. He knew what was awaiting him in that place. It was whatever had taken his brother from that hospital room. He didn't know exactly what he was up against, or what he would find with Sam--or within him--when he got inside. He knew it wasn't his brother he'd talked with earlier…Didn't know how he did, but he just did…

He knew Sam never made it out of his own mind…

Dean waited for some semblance of strength to return to him before he pushed up from the car and moved toward the gates. He stepped between the opening and headed up the steep path toward the abandoned structure looming at the end. He could feel the adrenaline kick up a few notches, which was a good thing. He knew he'd need the added boost.

He saw his car and breathed a sigh of relief at the beautiful sight. He ran a hand along her side as he rounded to his trunk. He didn't have his keys, but he knew a way to get into the trunk without them. He slid his fingers down under where he'd discovered the latch was exposed and the trunk released. After spinning the combination lock he lifted the lid of the weapons cache below.

His father's dog tags fell out of his shirt and dangled there as he looked through his options. He could use consecrated rounds and holy water. He knew that if this thing was in Sam, then he'd have to try to get to him without hurting him, which limited his options drastically. Dean stuffed his jacket pockets with holy water and added the clips of blessed rounds just in case. He held the handgun there for a second, staring at it.

_Kill me…_

He closed his eyes, as if shutting out the sight of the weapon in his hands would take away those words. But they didn't leave him, and he grew weak at the thought of that plea becoming a necessity.

No. Not if there was anything at all he could to save him. He was going to help Sam beat this even if it meant his own life. Dean held that resolve within him, and knew the weight of his decision.

Dean noticed his father's tags were hanging out of his shirt and he held to them for a second, despite the way his wrist ached at the motion. He needed that strength right now. He needed something more than his wrecked body and a handgun. 'Cause at this point that was all he was going to have to go in there with.

He tucked them back inside his shirt and then closed the trunk. He had four clips, a flask of holy water, and the knife in his boot. The gnawing feeling in his gut was getting stronger as he went over what he was going in there with. The thought of seeing his brother and having to think of a way to get him back without hurting him scared Dean shitless.

He was riding the adrenaline and the remnant of pain killers in his system. It was enough to keep moving. It was enough to overcome the pain, dulling it enough to where he could hold the handgun and knew squeezing the trigger would be possible. He just hoped that whatever was in there didn't notice the way that his hand shook when he would tighten his fingers around the grip.

The front doors to the church were still on their hinges, which was surprising given the condition of the rest of the place. The stained glass windows were blown out in jagged shards, the stairs bore crumbled stone, and the roof had caved. But the two wooden doors that Dean stood at now were solid. He took a deep breath and pushed in, surprised by how little effort it took to move them.

Only a few candles were lit toward the back of the church, but the front was masked in darkness. Their light cast an amber wash across the rotting pews and stagnating puddles of water that had collected. Dean kept his gun raised as he entered, keeping his eyes on the shadowed seats in front of him.

There was the constant sound of dripping water, and the creaking of the structure as the wind grazed through the broken windows. He was wary of everything hidden by shadow, every noise, and every wrong feeling that crept into his being as he moved forward. He knew he should be leaving, and what continuing on would mean, but he wasn't leaving without doing what he knew he had to do.

As he approached the front of the church, the clouds dispersed around the moon above, and the washed out light cascaded in through the gaping hole where the roof had once been. The front of the church was bathed in the consequent light and shadows melted back.

He heard the metallic flick of the lighter and finally saw Sam sitting at the front of the church on top of the altar there. He saw the small flame and the embers burning at the end of a cigarette. His little brother was the picture of what the demon had shown Dean in the barn. The version of Sam that had taunted and mocked Dean while he had hung crucified. Sam was dressed in black, and like the wraith that had taken his brother's form before, looked much older. Dean felt his heart clench and knew he'd failed to prevent that "prophesy" from coming true. However, Dean knew there could still be hope. Sam could still very much be a part of the shadow in front of him.

Sam finished taking a drag and looked up at Dean, the darkness masking one side of his face completely. A smile formed slowly as Sam's eyes fell upon Dean, and he jumped down from the altar and stood there on the stairs, looking down the aisle at his brother.

Dean lowered his gun and smirked. A short laugh passed his lips.

"Something funny?" Sam asked.

"Demons in churches. Not really inventive, but I do appreciate the irony."

Sam smiled and then inhaled more of his cigarette. He tossed it as he exhaled the pale tendrils of smoke. "Only thing that keeps me from tearing this flesh apart," Sam sneered as he nodded toward the cigarette. "Can't stand it. The human meat suit. Possession is one thing. Ownership is a completely different story." He paused and came down the last few steps to level with Dean. "You came alone."

It wasn't a question.

"Couldn't find a date," Dean replied with a shrug.

Sam chuckled lightly, and Dean couldn't find his brother at all in that sound. "Masks, Dean. You forget I can see the cracks in yours. You can barely stand."

The gun in Dean's hand shook at his side with a tremor that was working its way through his arm. He loosened his grip a little to stop it, then retightened. All he needed was to get close.

"I came for my brother."

"That was the point."

"And for you."

Sam's head dropped in amusement, and his lips pressed thin as he nodded. "You're standing there, practically a corpse, and you want to take me out?"

Dean pursed his lips like he was thinking about that question, nodding a little. "Yeah. That was the plan."

Sam laughed again, enjoying Dean's statement like he would a joke. "Well, Hell, I'm game." Then in one fluid motion he pulled out a Beretta from his long coat and fired at Dean.

* * *

After getting the assistance of Jack and Silas, Joshua had led them back toward one of the storage barns where John's truck was parked. When they'd returned from the hospital, Bobby and Joshua had gone out to the barn to "work on it." It was still how they'd left it, hood open and one of the side doors ajar with Nugent playing over the radio. 

He'd showed them the problem under the hood by simply motioning to the engine. They both looked it over and then stared blankly at each other and then back at Joshua.

"There's nothing wrong," Silas said.

"What did you say the problem was again?" Jack spoke up.

Joshua was about to answer with more bullshit, but the commotion at the house was heard and both men turned back to him, eyes glazed over in black. They moved back to one of the tool racks hanging on the wall, Silas grabbing a scythe and Jack a crowbar. Joshua backed up a little, hands in the air.

"Now, gentlemen, no sense in getting too excited."

Jack was the first to move, swinging the crowbar like a bat at Joshua's head. He ducked, and moved out of the way as he brought it down again, this time on John's truck. Joshua was able to dart to the right and winced inwardly as he heard the crunch of the metal. He'd been hoping to leave John's truck out of this.

He came around the back of the truck just as Silas chucked the sickle. He heard it whirling in his direction and ducked just in time to feel it pass overhead. It embedded in the wall by the door and Joshua whistled at the close call.

Jack had moved in, using the distraction created by Silas, and was once again trying to turn Joshua's head into a piñata. Rolling under the swinging crow bar, Joshua was back on his feet and running.

He hated not putting up more of a fight that this. Running seemed cowardice, especially when he knew the kinds of weapons he had access to in the back of John's truck. However, if there was anyway to free the people who were possessed, that took top priority.

He looked back and saw Silas working the sickle out of the wood, finally just giving it one last strong pull and bringing a hug chunk of the door with it. These people were packing ten times their normal strength in a single blow. Joshua knew that if he left one opening, then he was a dead man.

They pursued, and Joshua picked up a pipe he passed as he ran, to defend himself. He sprinted through the adjoining barn and was almost to the exit at the end when Silas dropped down in front of him from the hayloft and took another swing. Joshua fell backward and brought up the pipe just as Silas thrust it downward. The pipe met the blade and interlocked, and the force jarred through Joshua as he tried to keep the only defense he had in his hands. Silas pressed down harder, the tip of the scythe coming dangerously close to Joshua's throat.

Joshua pushed back and Silas brought the scythe back up to bring in back down harder and break Joshua's defense, but as Silas came back down for the kill hit, Joshua slammed the bar up into his chest, along with one of his boots, and rolled back ward, using Silas' momentum to throw the demon possessed man.

Joshua started for the door again and wasn't surprised to see Jack standing there and barring his only way out. He tapped the crowbar in his hands against his open palm and then started at him, an unearthly scream of rage coming from the man's twisted mouth. Joshua bent back as the weapon grazed past his chest, almost catching him. The prongs of the crow bar embedded in a nearby post, and Joshua moved in to land a punch in Jack's momentary incapacitation.

His fist landed in Jack's gut, but the man barely even flinched, and Joshua knew as he was picked up by his throat and tossed, that his move hadn't been the most well thought out one. He hit the barn wall, face first, and felt something give in his shoulder. He felt his forehead open up as it connected with the wood, but didn't feel any pain until he was scrambling to get back on his feet. His shoulder hurt like a sonuvabitch, and he held it as he stood to face his two attackers.

Jack was removing the crow bar from the support beam he'd lodged it into and Silas was back on his feet and advancing slowly. Joshua backed up to the door and started to step outside of the barn. The blood from the cut above his brow was now pooling into his eye, but he couldn't do much else but hold his arm in place.

The demons looked like hungry predators as they came closer. They moved slow and confident in their impending kill. Joshua just stood there, watching them advance until he couldn't hold back the smile anymore. It must have confused the hell out of the demons, because they stopped as realization set in that he was smiling for a reason. Joshua motioned upward with his eyes and a nod, and they tilted their heads back to follow his gaze.

One of the higher up haylofts' belly, just above where they were standing, was covered in chalk. The Key of Solomon, a devil trap, was crudely drawn across the beams.

"Whoops," Joshua said. "Ain't that a bitch."

He slammed shut the sliding door and then made his way over to a nearby fence to rest. The howls and screams of rage from within were getting louder and more desperate as the demon's tried to find a way out of their trap. He leaned into the fence, touching his brow tenderly and wincing at the sting. That move had been reckless and he was glad it hadn't cost him more.

He heard someone approaching and looked over to see Bobby rounding the building. He looked worried, and even more so when he saw Joshua's bloodied face.

"I'm good," Joshua said, stopping him from asking. "Did you trap it?"

"Lower level demon. It wasn't her…at least not anymore."

Rain had begun to fall and Joshua moved his hand down over his face to clear the mixture of sweat, drizzle and blood.

"Shit. Wasn't either of these two. Where is it?"

Bobby swore and looked up at the heavens. His fears kept presenting themselves as truths and he couldn't help but blame himself for the way things kept turning out. He was supposed to help Sam and Dean, and so far he'd been successful in screwing them over. He lowered his head as he knew that there was only one other place he could think of that their target was residing.

"Sam…"

* * *

Dean had anticipated the move of his brother's hand before he'd seen it dart into the folds of the coat to retrieve the gun. He'd dove for the nearest row of pews and had hit the floor just as Sam opened fire on him. He cursed as he forgot not to break his own fall with his hands and bit back the cry of pain as his wrists bent back against the floor. 

Lying there beneath the pews, he waited for the gunfire to cease before he pushed up with his forearms, keeping as low as he could, and hurried for one of the decorative pillars at the end of the row. He stood up and pressed his back against it, listening for Sam's movement.

He could hear Sam walking up the center aisle. Dean's ears honed in on the heavy and confident foot falls and the glass that would break underneath Sam's boots. Dean knew the Demon within Sam wasn't trying to hide or take cover. It knew that Dean wasn't going to shoot his brother, and Its arrogance burned at Dean.

"You know your blind faith in Sam is really touching. Your father was the same way, right before I killed him."

Dean pressed his eyes shut and put his head back against the pillar as he listened. He'd known his father hadn't given up. He'd known that there was more there than what was on the surface. This son of a bitch had stolen his father from him and his mother before that. He wasn't going to let It take Sam.

"He offered his life as a payment for his sons' lives. He thought for sure that you and Sammy would be able to escape me. You should have heard the way he screamed and called for you two in the end. I broke him. Reduced him to nothing. And I'll do the same with you, Dean."

It went silent after that. There was no more movement over glass or footsteps, just the sound of rain and Dean's blood racing through his ears. He waited until he couldn't stand the silence anymore and risked a look around the pillar. It was then that another shot rang out and Dean pulled back just in time, as the wood near his head exploded into hundreds of splinters. He caught his breath, ignoring the blurring at the edge of his vision. He knew he wasn't going to last long on his adrenalin and the pain killers.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean breathed as he checked the clip and jammed it back into the gun. He couldn't stand there and wait for It to kill him. He would have to fight.

Dean came out from the behind the support firing as he ran the length of the church to make it to the next beam. The Demon hadn't expected Dean to open fire on his brother and took too long to react. It was what Dean had been anticipating.

Sam returned fire while standing there without budging as Dean's bullets flew past him. None of the bullets touched him. Then again, they weren't meant to. Dean just needed the distractive fire to get to another post. He was counting off the bullets from his brother's gun in his head. Once there were thirteen bullets fired, Dean would be able to stop hiding behind pews and pillars. That was if Sam didn't have another clip.

Dean turned to get another look around the support beam and assess Sam's position. After the ring of gun fire in his ears had ceased and the last casing had clanked against the floor, it had once again returned to deafening silence.

Ten shots…

He got a good look down the center aisle, but it was barren. Sam wasn't standing there anymore.

_Shit!_

Dean saw movement in his periphery and realized that Sam had taken to the side aisle and was now rounding the back of the church where he was. Two more shots were fired as he approached and Dean returned fire before he rolled to the opposite side of the beam. There was a sharp pinch in his upper left arm, which grew in intensity and pain as he became more aware of what had happened. His hand went to his shoulder and pulled back wet. Blood had streamed through his fingers as he'd pressed against the fresh wound. He'd been nicked by the last shot.

"Dean," Sam called out to him from where he'd ducked behind the pews. Dean had landed a shot, but he couldn't see from where he was that there was dark liquid filling Sam's shirt near his brother's right shoulder. Sam let him know the damage he'd inflicted, however, with a biting sarcasm. "Damn, Dean, you got me good."

Dean held his arm and closed his eyes. He'd shot his brother. He'd reacted. He'd had to act. Now the thought of Sam bleeding had him almost abandoning judgment. He needed to know how bad the wound was. He also knew that it would be stupid to go to him. Torn, Dean worked on keeping his injured shoulder pressed into his body. He focused on staying present and alert, which was becoming increasingly more of a task.

"You can't win this, Dean."

He took a deep breath and thought through his options, letting the Demon hear itself talk so he could have more time.

"I'm not the one giving myself a pep talk," Dean answered back.

Then he came to a numbing conclusion. There were no freaking options. He dropped his head and knew he had to draw out one last shot. Dean stepped out again and fired toward the pews that Sam was hunkered down beside.

Sam fired off one last shot which Dean avoided by taking a single step back behind the safety of the beam. Thirteen. Dean moved in quickly and Sam was already on his feet, gun aimed at Dean's chest. The trigger was pulled, but only an empty click resulted and Dean kicked the gun from his hand.

It skidded away from Sam and under the pews, out of reach. Dean held up his own shaking 9mm, pointing it at Sam and establishing briefly that he had the upper hand. That was if he didn't mind blowing away his little brother…

Sam shrugged. "We both know you won't pull the trigger."

Dean could see Sam's hands stained with his own blood. The crimson was pushed up between his fingers where he'd compressed the gunshot wound. The wound didn't seem to be causing any discomfort…to the Demon. Dean knew by the way that blood was freely soaking his brother's shirt, that Sam would need medical attention as soon as he was free. It was killing Dean to just stand there and watch Sam bleed.

Despite the way that his gut tightened at the sight of his injured brother, Dean had to keep up his act. He smirked at the challenge the Demon within Sam had presented.

_You won't pull the trigger…_

"I already did," Dean said, before he ejected the clip and tossed both it and the gun along the floor under the seats.

Sam started forward and Dean blocked a punch. His forearm took the brunt of the blow, but his wounds jarred and he had to keep himself from recoiling. He continued to weave in and out of Sam's punches, backing up as they moved.

Dean ducked beneath a swing and brought his fist back in an upper cut to Sam's torso. Sam buckled with it, but returned the blow to Dean's jaw. Dean took the hit and staggered back a few steps, feeling like his legs were going to crumple at any minute. He recovered just in time to endure through another series of fierce and fast blows, only able to lift his arms in blocks.

Sam's fist shot out at Dean's chest, and he side-stepped, grabbing his arm and slamming the palm of his other hand into the back of Sam's elbow. It was a move that would normally shatter a man's arm, but Dean left arm didn't have the strength to follow through and Sam easily shook him and slammed his elbow back into Dean face, leveling him.

Dean lay on the ground, trying to get back up, but his head was too heavy and full. What little strength Dean had left was leaving him like the blood that was seeping from his shoulder and nostrils. He lay there heaving while his mind screamed for him to move.

They were back at the center of the church, underneath the exposed night sky. Dean could feel the rain on his face now. It swirled together with the blood on his lips and cooled the heat in his flesh. He was finding it difficult to move and wipe it away. He was finding it difficult to do much of anything but lay there and breathe.

Breathing was made even more difficult as Sam came and sat down on his chest. Sam patted him on the cheek, and smiled down at the broken hunter. "Stupidest thing you've ever done."

Sam's hand wrapped around Dean's throat and he stood up, dragging Dean along the floor toward the front of the church. Dean grabbed at Sam's fingers, trying to peel them away from his neck, but Sam only tightened his grip and continued to pull Dean over the shards of glass and splintered wood.

Dean grasped at the ground, looking for anything to help free him. His hand grazed over something sharp that sliced his palm open, setting it on fire. He took hold of it, despite the pain, and jammed it into Sam's forearm. For a moment the flesh that the Demon was attached to released Dean before it could override the reaction.

Sam looked down at the long shard of stained glass protruding from his arm and then back up at Dean, who was crawling away to make last ditch efforts on survival. Sam pulled out the blood soaked shard and threw it to the side, shaking his head.

"Nope, there you go again, Dean. Topping yourself. You just don't get it."

The pews toward the back of the church started to fly into the center of the aisle. They smashed into one another and blocked Dean's pathetic crawl forward. Dean stumbled to his feet and backed away as one after the other collided in a spray of splinters and debris.

Dean could feel the sigil on his wrist burn as he thought over the binding rite. He looked back at Sam, then back at the pews closing in on him. In a minute he'd be smashed between them. He had to go toward Sam. There were no more freaking options. He was trapped.

He turned and stared down the creature bearing his brother's face. He could see the eyes now; yellow irises that penetrated to his core. They burned into him a rage as hungry as the fires that had destroyed his family, dreams, and a life.

"This was fun, but you and I have unfinished business," Sam sneered.

Dean was suddenly thrown, hard and fast into the front of the church. His body colliding with the heavy wooden alter at the top of the stairs. He hung over the side, his ribs on fire, unable to push up from the surface while he tried to collect breath.

There was another surge of force that pressed him further into the wood slab, separating his ribs more as they were crushed into the jagged edge of the altar. Just as Dean thought he was going to pass out from the overwhelming pressure, he was tossed over the altar and effortlessly into the back wall. His head swam, and the sound of blood sizzling past ears became deafening as he started to black out, unable to breathe in.

Sam was there in the next instant, standing over him in victory. He knelt down beside Dean as he finally drew in a desperate, jagged breath. Dean saw those yellow eyes, and he tried to move for the knife in his boot. He wasn't thinking straight. He couldn't see anything but death before him and he was trying to survive.

Sam saw Dean's hand moving toward the weapon and his hand beat Dean to it. He pulled the knife from Dean's boot and waved the hunting blade in front of his brother's face. Sam watched Dean's eyes follow it, saw Dean's eyes fill with a moment of defeat, and his mouth twisted into a sadistic smirk.

"Dean…what were you going to do with this?"

Sam's smile dropped and he went to drive the knife through Dean's chest. Dean pulled himself together fast enough to grab onto the hilt and his brother's hands to stop the downward motion. The blade slipped in his own bloody fingers and the point swung downward from his chest to his gut.

Dean struggled to keep the knife from his midsection, his whole body straining for one last bit of strength to be able to throw Sam back and keep the metal from sinking into his flesh. He could feel the pressure of the tip and was only strong enough to keep the blade from going further than the surface. His whole body was shaking now as he tried to push up.

"Did you think, Dean? Did you really think that you could save him?"

Dean looked up into the eyes of the Demon, desperately wanting to see a hint that his brother was still there somewhere.

_Sam…_

He could feel his skin break, and a stream of warmth pouring down both his arms from his wrists. He knew what would happen if he let go, but he wasn't able to see any other way out of this. He had one last shot at saving his brother, and he couldn't in this place.

"Did you!?" Sam spat angrily.

"Yes."

Dean let go.

There was a blossoming of pain in his torso, followed by the pulsating of fresh blood around the metal and running down his stomach. The pain was both viciously cold and searing hot. His muscles constricted against the sharp edges in a futile attempt to impede the movement of the blade further into his flesh. From his mouth came a rasping cry, which ended in a growl as he fought hard not to give up that kind of pain to the Demon's ears. Eventually the growl became a choking gurgle and despite wanting to silence his agony, his throat gave up a pleading howl.

The taste of blood. The fire in his abdomen dying to the eager cold that was devouring him. The face of his brother and the eyes of a devil. Dean took in the last fleeting seconds of his consciousness and called upon what he had left. His hand went to the side of Sam's face and before the Demon in Sam could react, the damage was done.

"He doesn't belong to you," Dean breathed.

The connection was once again established. The Demon tried to stop it too late. Dean's will and the efforts of the Demon clashed in a gut punch of force. Sam was slammed back against the altar, slumping down alongside it. Dean smashed back against the large wooden cross behind him, his vision going white as it felt like spikes were being driven through his eyes and into the back of his skull. Then all was dark.

* * *

a/n: I must apologize for the wait that you all have had to endure. I updated this chapter with the edits, but still, all idiotic mistakes are definitely mine. Thank you everyone who reviews and reads. I love the feedback, and you guys are what keep me sane. Please keep feeding the poor college student writer with reviews. :) Special thanks again go to my editor, Mady, for putting up with me and Gaelicspirit for her inspiration. 


	15. What Lies Within

Warning: Content contains strong language and violence

Chapter 15: What Lies Within

_Prison gates won't open up for me,  
On these hands and knees I'm crawlin'  
Oh, I reach for you.  
Well I'm terrified of these four walls,  
These iron bars can't hold my soul in,  
All I need is you._ - Savin' Me, Nickelback

_So you're the fire and I'm the water.  
I am the balance and you are the color.  
I won't forget you when we're not together.  
This is the ending, here's my surrender._ –Hawthorne Heights

This time the connection between Dean and his brother was faster and more violent. After being thrown back into the cross, feeling the wood dig in between his shoulder blades while his whole world went from blinding white to black, Dean had suddenly found himself kneeling at the back of the church. The transition had been virtually instantaneous and seamless, and he was weakened by the shock of being ripped from one reality into another that quickly.

Dean fell forward on his hands to brace himself, clamping his eyes shut against the pain in his torso and skull. His eyes were burning and he could still feel the stab wound within his viscera. The hunter knew he was bleeding out in reality, but he'd known going into this fight that he could last longer within the bounds of this connection. He'd been planning on his connection with Sam from the get go, and hadn't cared what it cost to establish it. Here, he could call the shots better and trick his mind into believing he was alright—to a degree.

He placed a hand over the torn flesh and concentrated on trying to forget it was there. He pulled from within enough strength to override what had happened to his body, and felt the blood let up against his hand as he sealed off the stab site. As he healed up, his senses and instincts were screaming at him to move and get up. He wasn't alone in this place with Sam.

"Tell me." He heard his brother's voice boom from the front of the church.

Dean looked up and saw Sam walking toward him. He caught the flash of yellow glow that crossed his brother's eyes, previously darkened by shadow. He was approaching fluidly but slowly, his lip curvature revealing his amusement.

"What was the point of your stunt exactly?" He asked with an emphatic wave of his hand. "If you thought you had any chance of surviving me out there, forget it here."

Dean continued to hold to his stomach, the pain there ebbing away gradually. He was closing himself off from his body, severing the link that his mind had to his pain.

Dean started to get up, standing slowly to show the demonic sonuvabitch before him that he was ready for a second round. He kept one hand down at his side while he reached into his mind for a weapon. He could recall the feel of the metal, the etchings, and the way the weight of this particular gun had felt in his hands.

The Colt. The weapon his father had been searching for. The second Bobby placed it in Dean's hands he'd started to memorize it. He'd ran his fingers over every symbol, every curve, every flaw and scratch. He'd known that it might come to this, and he was cognizant of the fact that he had to _know_ this was the Colt in his hands--or it would be useless.

He felt it there suddenly, the heaviness of the gun that had materialized out of nothing at his side. He wrapped his fingers around the grip, his heart strengthening as the apparition of what existed outside of this place was now solid within his hands. He lifted it calmly and pointed it at the demon parading around his brother's form.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked.

The Demon stopped and looked at the gun and then up at Dean. There was a moment of fear that passed over his features, but it was quickly replaced with twisted delight. He shook his head, laughing at the sight in front of him.

"You're looking right at him, Dean."

Dean fumed, cocking the gun. "Where. Is. Sam?"

The Demon sighed. "Nice toy you have there." He nodded toward the Colt. "That thing has been a major pain in the ass since its creation. Somehow I knew it would pass into a Winchester's hands. As for Sam, I told you already. Why is that so hard to believe? He didn't hesitate to drive home that knife. He didn't save you."

At the mention of the knife, Dean flinched, feeling in his gut once again the deep, sickening pain before he could seal it off again. He tried to hide his reaction, but the Demon had picked up on it and his smile widened.

"Damn that has to be a bitch. You're stuck in here, dying out there, and you thought there would be something to save." The Demon moved in closer, challenging Dean. "What was that you said? Ah, yes. 'He doesn't belong to you.' Touching. But, just because you choose not to believe it, Dean, doesn't mean it's not true."

"You're lying," Dean responded, his eyes scanning the church, hoping Sam was there somewhere. Praying that he wasn't too late to do something for him.

The Demon laughed. "You wish that this was a lie. Everything you've done so far has been allowed by me. You think you have power in this place? You think that somehow you're going to kill me?" It was having a great time, feeding off of Dean's confusion and pain. "I am God here! I let you find Sam. I let you pull him back together. You led me right to your brother." The Demon paused and watched as Dean's eyes betrayed his distress, followed by his denial.

"No…"

"Again, kiddo, just because you don't want to believe it, doesn't mean it isn't true. You're a dead man. All your efforts were for nothing. You're witness to things as they should be."

Again, Dean's eyes searched around for the real Sam. He refused to accept that the one in front of him was his brother. Dean knew it wasn't possible that he didn't exist anymore...because he could still feel him.

The Demon started forward again. "Look at me, _brother_."

Brother. One simple word coming from the Demon's lips carried so much weight and ferocious derision. The mockery of that one word set Dean's core on fire. Sam and the Yellow-eyed Demon weren't one. This wasn't Sam. And this _thing_ had no right to call him brother.

"Let him go."

The Demon outstretched his arms. "You want to save him. Go ahead. Shoot me."

The look on the Demon's face held a cocky arrogance. It was apparent he thought he had already won, and Dean wasn't going to stand there and watch it gloat while hiding behind his brother's features. Not after everything it had done to his family. It ended tonight. The Demon was probably right; Dean was a dead man. So what did he care if he went out fighting? At this point he knew his life didn't matter, and he was prepared to die as long as he took this bastard with him and freed Sam.

The challenge had been thrown out into the open. The Demon still stood with his arms wide and his sneer dared Dean to make the first move. As much as Dean had to fight himself on this, he did what he knew had to.

He pulled the trigger.

The shot penetrated the right shoulder in a brilliant burst of white electrical current and blood. He watched as the creature backed up, screaming and holding to the fresh injury, just before splitting apart into two beings. They melted away from one another, Sam and a man without features. The figure of darkness kept stumbling back, while Sam fell forward onto one knee. Both were clutching tightly to their wounds.

Dean hadn't realized that in a way the Demon had been telling the truth. It hadn't just taken on Sam's form, but had merged with him. Dean had almost lowered his weapon, not prepared for what he'd seen, but he kept it on the Demon. He'd shot his brother, again, and was taken back by the sight of him kneeling there and bleeding once more. Dean's eyes kept going back and forth between the two who'd been separated, wanting to go to one and knowing he had to kill or be killed by the other.

Sam locked eyes with Dean, and in that moment Dean saw relief and a plea among the pain. _Keep shooting. Don't Stop._

Dean took aim and fired two more shots into the Demon's chest and one into the head. Each bullet embedded with an explosion of searing light and sprays of ink like blood. The being collapsed to the ground as the last shot rocketed through its skull, and Dean reluctantly lowered the gun.

Dean stood there for a moment, watching the dark mass on the ground, looking for movement. The hunter in him was waiting intently to make sure the kill was complete. The only motion, however, came from black liquid, running out from under the heap and making dark rivers along the floor.

Sam groaned, snapping Dean from his concentrated state. Dean went to his wounded brother and knelt with him, pulling Sam into him so he could look at the exit wound. Guilt poured in at the sight of the damage he'd caused, and he had to tell himself that he'd had no other options. He gently pushed away from Sam and looked up into his brother's face. A weak smile returned at the sight of Sam's hazel irises, but quickly left at closer examination of how bruised with exhaustion his eyes were.

"Sorry Sammy."

"No. You had to," his brother rasped, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder. He then dropped his eyes, and returned his hand to his wound. "I should have been stronger…"

"Don't. Don't even start with that."

Dean took Sam's arm and steadied him while he gathered the strength to stand. His mind was working through their situation, trying to piece together what would be their next move. There was no glaringly obvious exit sign. Dean had thought for sure that once the bad guy was down, then they'd both come back from this place…but that wasn't the case. They were still there…

It was as Dean was helping Sam to his feet that he was suddenly aware that something was very wrong. He felt the shudder within, like he had so many times before while hunting. It was the 'oh shit' before the actual shit storm. He caught in the corner of his vision the clear aisle, the body and blood of the demon gone. He heard Sam gasp and tense up, before his brother's eyes shot up to meet his filled with terror.

"Dean, it's not dead!"

Sam was ripped away from him and pulled viciously into the front of the church. It was too fast for Dean to react, and he lost his grip on Sam's forearm. He picked the Colt up off the floor and leapt to his feet. He started running after him, but the Demon rose from the ground in front of Dean. Its long fingers caught him by the throat and lifted him into the air.

"Doubt," it hissed. "When you doubt your power, you give power to your doubt. Isn't that how the adage goes?" The Demon tightened the grip it had on Dean, watching him struggle and kick. "The bullets didn't work, Dean. Could it be you took what I said to heart?"

Dean stared down at the faceless creature. Nothing but the swirling yellow orbs were distinctive from the rest of the face. He should have emptied the gun into the smug bastard before checking on Sam, and he knew he was going to pay for that mistake. Dean raised the gun and put the Colt right between the Demon's eyes.

"I'm not…doubting now…"Dean said. His finger compressed the trigger without hesitation. He thought he saw panic in the being's eyes just before the shot. The gun went off, but the demon had dissipated into a mist around the bullet.

Dean was released and landed on one knee, coughing. "Fucking coward…" he wheezed through his freshly bruised windpipe.

He staggered to his feet, gun raised. His eyes went to every shadow that flickered or stirred. His eyes finally fell on Sam. His brother was pinned against one of the two main pillars on either side of the altar.

"Sam, you all right?" he asked, moving as fast as he could while still keeping his eyes searching and waiting for the Demon to resurface.

"Peachy…" Sam groaned. He was pulling hard against his invisible restraints, growling in frustration. Each time he strained he fell back helplessly against the support beam.

As Dean approached he saw Sam's eyes go to something behind him and he knew before the warning was shouted that the Demon was there.

"Behind you!"

Dean turned and the Demon grabbed his arm lifting the gun upward. Dean didn't waste the shot, and cursed himself for not being faster.

"Are you done yet?" the Demon asked as his fingers burned into Dean's forearm, digging in between and separating the muscle.

Dean was forced to drop the Colt and he took a swing with his free hand. The Demon caught his fist and started to laugh. "I have to admit. If you didn't put up this much of a fight, I'd be sorely disappointed."

The Demon threw Dean backward onto the stairs at the front of the church. He then picked up the Colt and looked it over while Dean recovered from his flight. He strode casually toward the hunter and with a dismissive motion of his wrist, Dean was sent into the pillar opposite his brother.

The Demon set the Colt down on the altar and hopped up onto the wooden block to have a seat.

"Now where were we?"

"You going to tell us a story?" Dean smirked before struggling to get free like his brother had been earlier.

The Demon shook its head. "Ever the smart ass. Got that from your daddy, didn't ya? He could put up fronts better than anyone. Right up until the end."

Dean stopped trying to get free and stared right into the only feature the shadow figure had: Its loathsome yellow eyes. He wasn't going to play this game with the Demon. He wasn't going to let it break him. If it was going to try to get to him through his father, it would have one hell of a time. Dean knew his father died by this thing's hand. His father should have been the one to pull the trigger of the Colt and be rid of the eighteen-year-old curse on their family. But he wasn't going to get the chance to, and Dean wouldn't allow the Demon to use that against him now.

In Dean's mind he could still get out of this. He still had a shot…just had to think about what exactly that looked like at the moment.

"Everyone has their breaking points," the Demon continued. "I wonder if you'll hold out longer than he did…What do you say, kiddo? Ready to see if offspring truly are able to surpass their parents?"

* * *

Bobby stood wearily on the periphery of the crude chalk drawing he'd made on the ceiling of Mrs. Montgomery's attic. Joshua was finishing up with a summoning sigil on the floor just outside of the trap. He'd set up the candles and had set down a pot of herbs and oil, and now he was looking up at Bobby with severe apprehension.

"This has got to be one of the stupidest things we've ever done…" Joshua sighed.

Bobby nodded toward the Colt on the table in the corner. "It has to be done. I don't see any other way. We'll kill this son of a bitch and get Sam back."

Joshua got to his feet, dusting the chalk from his hands. He looked like he was questioning his sanity. "We don't even know what we're really dealing with…"

"You want out?" Bobby asked, slightly annoyed. "'Cause there's the damn door."

"That's not what I meant and you know it…Just…shit, forget it. Let's do this."

Bobby stepped into the Key of Solomon and knelt beside the chair in the center. He checked the ropes that were holding Karen down and made sure they were tight. She was out of it after a few rounds with holy water, but he'd be waking her soon.

He hated that it had come to this, but to get what they needed they had to go to the source. The demon that had Sam had put the demon in Karen in charge, switched hands, and as regrettable as it was to do this to the poor woman, Bobby knew that to save her and to save Sam, it had to be done.

The others, Silas and Jack, were out cold after their exorcisms. They'd been unable to give Joshua or Bobby any information. The only thing they had given them was that they served the one within Karen, and that if Bobby and Joshua wanted answers, they had to go to her.

Joshua picked up a bucket after Bobby was done checking the restraints and waited for Bobby's go ahead. The elder hunter nodded tiredly and stepped out from under the trap. Joshua wound up and tossed the bucket of holy water onto their prisoner.

"Rise and shine, beautiful. Show me those big black eyes."

Some of the cold water evaporated instantly upon impact with Karen. Steam rose from her soaking blouse and limbs in thick plumes. She threw her head back, a scream dying out to a growl in her throat before her head snapped back. She glared at both men, seething, before cracking her neck.

"Ah, there she is," Joshua said. "Morning, sunshine."

Karen hissed and tried to pull her arms up, but she stopped when she saw the Key of Solomon above her. Comprehending her situation she then dropped her head onto her chest, laughing softly to herself.

"I suppose you want me to give up this body?" she said, voice low and rough.

"Eventually," Bobby said, stepping forward. "But we won't give you a choice in the matter. We'll just send you back to whatever damn circle you came from."

"No you won't," she said. She laughed with a hollow clicking noise in the back of her throat. "I'll tear her apart from the inside out. Plenty of other vessels out there. Had my eyes on a girl in Andover, Massachusetts before the reassignment."

Joshua picked up another bucket and threw the contents onto her. More steam and screaming erupted from the woman and she started to curse Joshua. He found the display amusing and shrugged.

"We can go all day. Threaten her life one more time and I'll keep them coming," he promised.

She tilted her head, staring at Joshua as if she were studying him, taking him in. A smile crept its way across her face and she licked her lips. "Kind of like daddy, right Joshua? He kept them coming didn't he? The punches when you weren't being a good little boy. He was too drunk most of the time to realize even when you were being a good little boy. He just wanted an outlet, and you were the first thing that always got in his path."

Joshua blinked, taking in what she said. He'd been taken off guard by how fast this thing had been able to pull memories from him. In all his experience he'd never been sought out so quickly. He recovered fast, knowing that these things liked to play games and shrugged it off, giving a short laugh.

"Yeah, well, what doesn't kill you…"

"Keep telling yourself that, Joshie," Karen said.

Joshie. His father would call him that. No one but his father had ever called Joshua that. It was the way he would call to him after he'd laid into him, after he'd bruised his face and broken his skin._ I'm sorry, Joshie. We okay, Joshie?_

Joshua clenched his fists, wanting so badly to cross the trap and knock her from her chair, but that would do nothing for Karen and everything for this demon.

Bobby muttered some Latin and Karen flinched in pain, turning her attention to him.

"That wasn't very nice," she said angrily.

"What? Telling you to be quiet? I can say it in English if you'd prefer," Bobby said. "Shut. The hell up." He then smiled sweetly and pulled up a chair. "Hard way or easy way? Your choice."

Karen acted like she was pondering that one. Biting her lip and pretending to be helpless. Her eyes then returned to Joshua. "Well, for Joshie's sake, so he doesn't slip and become more like his old man in front of you, we'll go with my way."

"Oh? And what exactly is that?" Joshua asked.

"I get to keep this body and you two get to walk away."

Joshua laughed at that and picked up another bucket. "God, you're making this so much fun for me," he said before dumping the contents onto her again. He waited for her to stop screaming and knelt down to look right into her face. "You finished being pissy?"

She laughed again, letting him know that this was a game to her. Bobby took up one of his books he had laying on a stack of boxes and started to read the Latin there. Karen started to twitch and strain against the ropes as each word burned into her.

"No? Well then, I guess we have no use for you darlin'." Joshua smiled, blue eyes darkening. He wasn't going to mess around, and both Bobby and he knew, ironic as it was, that demons couldn't stand the thought of Hell. "Hope you enjoyed the trip, 'cause it will be a long, long while before you can crawl back out of that shit hole we're sending you back to."

"Wait!"

"Hmm?" Joshua asked, faking concern. "Oh, I'm sorry. You feel like helping us out now?"

Bobby stopped reading and lowered the book, looking at Karen and waiting for her response. She was breathing heavily and weak curls of steam were still rising from her. She had murder in her eyes, but Bobby wasn't afraid of her. He knew the key would hold her in place for as long as this took. She screeched at both of them and tried again to snap the ropes.

"Where is Sam Winchester?" Bobby asked.

She stopped pulling and settled herself. Her eyebrows rose at Bobby's question.

"I wouldn't know. He doesn't tell us everything."

"Who is _he_? The yellow-eyed demon?" Bobby asked.

"Interesting name you have for him," she said. "But yes. We like to call him the Father."

"You know where Sam is and you're going to tell us," Joshua said.

"You don't have a clue about what is going on…do you?" She sighed, rolling her head as if relieving a cramp. "If you did you wouldn't be looking so hard for Sam to save him. You'd be looking for him so you could put a bullet between his eyes."

Joshua glanced at Bobby and then back at the possessed woman in front of him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Sammy is his _favorite_," she said, drawing out the word 'favorite' and passing it over her lips in a sickeningly sweet manner.

"What?" Joshua started.

Bobby held up Elkins' journal. "These names, who are they? What does Sam have to do with any of this?"

Karen bit her lip playfully. "Now why would I tell you that?"

Bobby set down the journal and picked up the exorcism rite. "I'm sure I could supply the motivation."

She glowered at the book. "Fine…if you really…really want to know," she whispered maliciously. "They're soldiers in a war against mankind. They can do things that simple meat and synapses, like yourselves, couldn't possibly fathom. The Father chose them, imprinted them, marked them, and owns them."

"Owns them?" Joshua asked.

Karen took in a deep breath. "Possesses, holds, has…"

"I don't need a definition!" Joshua snapped.

"Sorry Joshie, thought you needed clarification," she said while teasingly wrinkling her nose. "I know it's hard to get things through your thick skull."

"A war? Why don't the demons just fight the war themselves?" Bobby asked.

"The Chosen are gifted beyond what some of us can do. And as a result, some of us got a little… jealous. Master plans involving humans…major slap in the face. A lot of the Father's followers got restless. They didn't want the glory to belong to "the yellow-eyed demon" as you so named him. So they started possessing the Chosen and taking on their abilities."

"No honor among demons?" Bobby smiled.

"Between you and me and Joshie," Karen said, leaning forward. "The early harvesting of the Chosen, this internal war between the Father's children, is simply the result of what every creature desires. Man or demon. Even you…if you were really honest with yourself."

"Do enlighten me," Bobby said with a short laugh.

"Power."

Joshua rolled his eyes. "Right."

Karen snapped her head around to look right at him. "You liked the way it felt when you finally hit your old man back. You liked the _power_ of it. You'd like to hit me now. Get that _rush_."

He nodded, trying to keep his calm, but couldn't. He moved in to backhand her, but Bobby stopped him, grabbing his arm. Karen laughed at the show, while Joshua shook Bobby's grasp and backed away from her. He knew he had to cool down or he'd take apart the innocent trying to get at the demon.

"You say Sam is his favorite. Why?"

She sighed and looked up at the trap above her. "I'm not really in the mood to delve into such…complications. Besides, you should just ask him yourselves. That is what the summoning sigil's for, isn't it? You want to have a heart to heart and then take him out with that gun." She nodded toward the table where the Colt was. "Doubt he'll come though."

"Yeah? Why is that?" Joshua asked.

"He knows you're here," she sneered.

Bobby knitted his brow. The demon could be lying, knowing that he was trying to get rid of her master. If she made him doubt his plans then he might not go through with them. But there was more there. If this demon already knew their plans then it knew he'd left Dean…

Karen's grin widened as she felt him slowly start to put everything together. "You shouldn't have left either of them alone."

* * *

Sam tried to lift his head away from the stone column he was unceremoniously being held to. He was fighting venomously within himself and outwardly to find a way out of this. He'd stabbed his brother and shot him. He knew that even as Dean was showing no signs of that here and now, he was still outside of this place dying. He needed to get him help. If it was the last thing he did he would kill the Demon for what It'd made him do. He was sick of being danced around like a marionette. Sick of being pinned down, bound, and stuck in this god-forsaken place.

He watched the Demon as it sat casually on the altar, after having set down the Colt. Sam knew that particular gun could kill the Demon. He knew because he'd felt the Demon's fear percolate through him when It had been using him against Dean. This being wasn't without its weakness. Right now, however, It was calling the shots.

Dean had been smart with the Demon and Its attention was now on his brother. It was talking to him about how their father had died. It was asking Dean if he would like to try to outlive the pain their father had gone through. Sam pulled harder, and felt a little give in the force holding him back. When the Demon's attention was on his brother, It seemed to lose small amounts of control when It came to Sam.

However, this give in energy didn't go unnoticed. The Demon looked back at Sam and sighed. "You could move if you wanted to," It said. "You could be so much more, Sammy."

Sam didn't miss the way Dean's face flinched in disapproval at the Demon's use of 'Sammy.' The mockery of it. It was Dean's name for him. At times it was a nuisance when used by his brother, but it only ever sounded right coming from him. Coming from the Demon it made Sam sick to his stomach.

"Perhaps it would have been better if you'd never existed at all, Sammy," the Demon stood up. "That was one of your thoughts when you tried to hide from me. Wasn't it? At times," the Demon started, picking up the Colt from the altar and examining it. "I wish you'd never existed as well. All that power…flawed…"

Sam didn't know what he meant by flawed. Hell, he didn't even know what he meant by 'all that power.' His being stuck against this pillar made him feel to the contrary.

Sam intently watched the way that the demon rolled the gun over in his hands. It was obviously pained by something, and Sam didn't like the way he was studying the gun. Especially after It had just said It wished that he'd never existed. Sam's whole body tensed up and he waited painfully to see what the Demon would do next.

The Demon suddenly raised the Colt and pointed it at Sam, and Sam looked away in anticipation of the shot. He instantly regretted that, feeling the blood rush into his face in embarrassment at the weakness of his flinching. He'd heard Dean yell "No!" and he'd even thought himself that was going to be the end of everything. That was until he heard the Demon laugh.

"Bang," It said, still chuckling. "I wouldn't be so wasteful. Not yet anyway."

He then turned back to Dean and returned the revolver to the altar. "How's the wound?"

Sam saw Dean's jaw go taut, the muscles in his face betraying the pain he was in with a brief spasm. The Demon knew that just mentioning it to Dean would break his concentration and reconnect him to his body, even if it was momentary. The Demon patted the side of Dean's face and then turned to Sam.

"You sure did a number on your brother. But he shot you...twice. That's why you two have to stand in separate corners."

Sam could see that Dean was losing his cool. The way his nostrils flared…they always did that just before he was about to go off on someone.

"Stop dicking around and get to the point," Dean said.

"But this is the fun part, Dean. I could have killed you both a million times, but I waited. I was patient. I get to enjoy this."

"According to one of your followers, you had to go lick your wounds for a while," Dean replied.

The Demon tilted Its head, confused as to how Dean would know that, and then its eyes widened in recognition. "That's right…my son had you skewered to a barn wall didn't he? He was always so creative. Too bad I made him pull out his own eyes and eat them. I could do that to you, Dean. Make you eat your own flesh, how does that sound?"

"Appetizing," Dean said with a disgusted look. "Honestly, I think, you're bluffing. You're drawing this out because you have nothing. You can't do anything to Sam. Talk him to death maybe…but that's about it."

"That's a ballsy theory. What ground do you have to stand on?" The Demon asked, drawing closer to Dean. He stood inches from the hunter to see if he would shrink away. He didn't.

"You have a shitty poker face." Dean shrugged. "You can't touch him."

"And why is that?" the Demon hissed.

"Because you would have done it already," Sam shouted from where he was.

The demon turned and glared at Sam. "Feeling ignored, Samuel?"

"Actually I'm enjoying the sulfur free breathing room, thanks." Sam smirked and then continued with his thoughts. "I mean, you've been trying and pushing to get me to break. You can't just take me can you?"

The Demon shook its head and started toward Sam. "You forget that Dean is dying because of what you did by _my_ will."

Sam scoffed. "Any low level can possess. Isn't that what you were bitching about earlier?"

"One thing to possess, another thing to own," Dean quoted. "Looks like Sam's off limits."

"My capture wasn't even in your plans. Your followers were plotting mutiny. You couldn't even control them," Sam taunted.

The Demon kept looking back and forth between the brothers as they spoke. He found their synergistic banter to be a nuisance that was in need of immediate squelching.

"My followers have been eating up those like you, Samuel, for months now. It's what drove me out of Hell and into this world. I wasn't 'licking my wounds.' I was planning, getting ready for the next generation of children. But you're right. I'd never planned to take you like that." It laughed, taking a moment to think over this.

So Sam Winchester thought he knew what was going on, did he? The Demon had actually been hoping Sam would start down this path. "So you think you have this all figured out? That I'm powerless to do anything to take you?"

The Demon didn't miss the smug expression on Sam's face. He had to give it to the kid and his damn brother. In a way they were right, but they'd come to wish they weren't before this was over. The Demon leaned against the altar so he could talk to both Winchesters, starting with Sam.

"My son knew you were in the area. He wanted a shot at you. Why you? I know that one question has just been killing you, Sammy, but try to hold all questions until the end. Let's just say the arrogant bastard was moving outside of his league and rank. He wanted you and knew how to lure you. Left you five bodies. He wasted five young women's lives, just to get your attention, and you missed it." The demon laughed. "You were so focused on leaving your family, you missed the point that the blood of these women was spilt just to get your attention. But he figured that might be the case. He knew that you loathed the life you had."

"That's not true."

"It's not? Didn't Dean beg you to come with him. Just 'one last hunt' I believe were his words. But you didn't give a shit. It was off to better things and people. You wanted to leave the_ trash_ behind."

"No." Sam had seen the muscles in Dean's jaw twitch at the word 'trash.' It wasn't like that. Now more than ever he realized exactly what he had. He'd give anything to go back and…

"But you got it, at the last second," the Demon continued.

"You were the one that called me," Sam said, putting that piece into place.

"Yahtzee," the Demon said, mocking Dean's familiar term. "The opportunity was just too good to pass up. I needed to stop some of my rebellious children, and my one son had set the stage for me to get to you. I wasn't about to let you get on that bus. He'd already disposed of your dad, brilliant and yet so disappointing at the same time. Your father had only two weaknesses." The Demon drew his finger in the air between Dean and Sam. "And that night, you'd torn him up so bad with your rejection of him, he wasn't thinking straight. Never saw my son coming."

Sam watched the Demon push up from the altar and start for his brother.

"Then Dean here thought he'd step up and fill daddy's shoes…" The Demon took on John's appearance and smirked at Dean. "Got yourself crucified. Which still tickles me, by the way. I told you my boy was creative. If it'd been me though…I would have done it proper. Let you hang until your lungs burned out and collapsed."

Dean was fuming again and trying to get free. The Demon taking on John's face was too much for him. He wanted to rip the creature open with his bare hands. The Demon thoroughly enjoyed that, lingering in front of Dean before continuing with his attention on the other brother.

"But the most entertaining part of all this, was watching your brother, Sam. He fought so hard to get you back, not knowing that this was exactly what I'd wanted."

Sam could feel It enjoying Itself as it walked between them. It wanted them to know exactly what It had done so It could bask in the glory of Its own calculated planning.

"Your father sacrificed himself so you could live, Dean. I would have just ripped you open in your sleep, but he believed that you would be able to get Sam out. That faith was too priceless to pass up. What your daddy didn't know, was that I didn't want just Sam…I needed you, too."

Dean's eyes narrowed at that, his jaw clicking back into a locked position. He was bracing himself for this one.

The demon laughed when he felt Dean's uncertainty shift. Confusion was a secondary fuel for a demon, and he'd take every last drop from Dean's wellspring of conflict. "He signed off on his death not knowing that killing you then would have been the more merciful thing. He had no idea that you'd fight this hard, only to realize at the end that this was where I wanted you."

"Oh yeah? Why is that?" Dean growled.

"You were right. I can't touch Sam."

Dean was taken back by that response. While he'd felt that was the case, he'd had no idea that he'd actually been right. But for some reason, being right didn't feel so good. He could feel the knot of trepidation tighten in his gut.

"Eighteen years I spent trying to fix a fucking mess," the Demon growled. "I won't bore you with all the hierarchy bullshit, but children like your brother don't belong only to me. I'm a Harvester. I make sure they turn and they start toward their destiny. But what the lower levels don't know is that this was never about a war. This was about finding the ultimate weapon. This was about destroying man, by _one_ man's hands. Not an army of these Chosen. They were to fight one another and the last one standing would destroy everyone and everything. And the demon who owned them…would be one with that power."

"So this is a contest between demons?" Sam asked, shaking his head.

"The more powerful ones, yes, but then those lower in the hierarchy wanted a taste…and the result has been…"

"You chasing them down ahead of schedule. Trying to regain your footing. Can't you keep them in line?" Dean finished with a shake of his head. "No wonder you've got a stick shoved so far up your ass. The troops are restless."

The Demon smiled, keeping its calm before continuing. "Sammy, and three others like him, I'd set aside as mine. Sure, I have others. But they…they were supposed to be powerful beyond the other chosen. I put everything I had into them. My four Generals…They were to take the North, South, East, and West, and then one another. Between gambling men, Dean, my money was on your brother."

"That's got to be a bitch," Dean smirked. "All this time and you couldn't touch him."

"Kill, destroy, maim, sure. But why ruin or waste something so valuable?"

"There a point to this, Homer, or are you going to start in on another Iliad-sized tangent?"

"Your mother," The Demon cut in before Dean could continue. He got Dean's attention with that one. "I know you've lain awake at night wondering why her? Why didn't some higher power protect her? I watched you cry yourself to sleep a few times after her death. Beautiful thing; that kind of pain," It laughed. "And the way you used to hold Sammy, so sure that nothing in the dark could touch him if you were with him." The Demon's demeanor darkened. "If only I'd known then…"

"Known what?" Sam asked, getting the Demon's attention.

"Your flaw, Sam, is that you're incomplete. I can't touch you, because a part of you is hidden from me. You were born that way. After all I'd done, and after all I'd poured into you…" he snarled, clenching his fists. He then relaxed his hands and took a deep breath. "_They_ hid you from me."

"Who?" Sam continued to dig. They were on the edge of a revelation and he wanted to know why they'd gone through all of this. He wanted answers, and at the moment didn't care what they were as long as they were the truth.

The Demon flinched at having to answer that question. "Heaven and Hell, Samuel. Heaven and Hell. For every one side of a coin there is another. We're not the only ones with an army. The 'other side of the coin' took it from me."

"Took what?" Sam pressed.

"A piece of your soul, Sammy." The Demon hadn't even paused between the question and the answer. He'd spouted it like it was nothing, like Sam should have been aware of this fact. "The key to the lock so to speak. You could be so much more…but I can't even lead you toward that destiny correctly. I've tried to figure out where it's been hidden all these years. I thought it was the mothers-Why I burned them. I burned them to purify you, to take back what belongs to me. It was in the other three…but not within your mother."

Sam felt numb at the mention of his mother. He could see Dean look down. The truth was out now. Dean had heard from the source that Sam was the reason their mother was gone.

"I went mad after your mother…tried to think of where it was. I knew one day you'd fall in love, and if this uprising hadn't occurred, I would have looked for it in the first girl you fucked and really fell for..."

He turned to Dean. "But I was looking in the wrong place. It was out my hands before you were born, Samuel. _They_ saw fit to give you a guardian. _They_ wanted you for themselves…but I beat them to the finish line."

The Demon stopped his movement near Dean, their faces so close that they were almost touching. "You," It sneered. "It has to be you. I know of no other place but within you. You're the only sibling, not a twin, of a Chosen. I don't know how I overlooked that little detail. I didn't take your kind as much of a threat. But I'd wondered, set up my test, and you passed with flying colors. No man has ever been able to last this long with the guide sigil. You keep refusing to die and I get it now. You're 'touched', 'anointed'…whatever the hell you are, you're not going to stand between me and my glory any longer. Your death will be Sammy's perfection."

The Demon stepped away and watched the elder Winchester process, letting it set in that he was going to help the Demon turn his brother. The screaming his soul was doing on the inside…the Demon had never fed off of anything so succulent.

"I ask again, Dean, how's the wound?"

He watched Dean's face contort in agony before looking down at the blood starting to fill his shirt. The stab wound was reopening and widening, drenching the dark cloth. The screaming in the young man's soul, released through his throat and the Demon drank in the symphony of anguish like a fine wine.

* * *

Bobby felt panic rise within him as Karen enjoyed the revelation she'd bestowed upon the two hunters. She cocked her head, black eyes glistening in the candle light and smiled sweetly.

"Come on, Bobby. You handcuffed him to a bed. Did you really think that would keep him from going anywhere?"

He looked at Joshua, knowing that Dean now, and not just Sam, was in trouble. He was not sure what to do with this new information. The demon could be lying to get them to leave. It could be lying to get them to abandon their plans to summon the yellow-eyed demon, but he didn't know…and that was what was tearing into him.

"Wasn't bad enough that you left Sam," she cooed. "Let down Dean by allowing his brother get away while you looked for a gun. A gun that you can't even use now. A gun that Dean sure could have used when he went to look for Sam."

Joshua took the Colt from the box on the table and turned it on Karen. "Who says we can't use it now?"

Karen's sweet smile died off as she looked down the gun and into Joshua's cold eyes.

"You wouldn't take her life," the demon challenged.

"Are you willing to take that chance? You're not leaving us that much of a choice. This wouldn't be a one way trip to hell, sweetheart. You're looking at death. Nonexistence. How does that sound?"

Karen went silent, trying to figure out if Joshua was sincere. She looked at Bobby and he nodded in approval. He was with Joshua just shooting her and being done with it.

"I'll ask you one more time," Bobby said darkly. "Where is Sam? Is Dean with him?"

Karen scowled, eyes still on the gun. "Gardens of Memory. But you're not going to make it in time. He has what he wanted. You failed them."

Bobby wasn't about to believe a demon, but she continued to seal his doubt. "You asked where they were…you didn't ask if they were still alive."

Bobby nodded toward the door, but Joshua hesitated.

"You want to do this alone?" Joshua asked.

"Go. Find them," Bobby said, eyes not leaving Karen. "I'll take care of this."

Joshua nodded took off down the stairs. Bobby waited until he was gone before he picked up the exorcism rite and looked back at Karen. He didn't speak to her, but started into reading the Latin. Karen started to spasm, muscles pulling against the rope and rubbing the skin raw around the wrists.

"You never had children. They were the closest thing you had," she hissed. "And even though you and Johnny had your falling out, he was the closest thing to family you had."

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incuriso infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, onmis congregatio et secta diabolica..."

"They were lost and there was nothing you could do. Dean came to you asking for help, and you couldn't protect his father. You couldn't protect his brother."

"Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae, terogamus audi nos, terribilis deus do sanctuario suo deus israhel. Ipse tribuite virtutem et fortitudinem plebi suae, benedictus deus, gloria patri..."

"They're gone, Bobby. Sam is where he belongs and Dean is dead!"

Bobby stopped reading and set down the rite. "You mind? I'm trying to work here."

She beamed. "So am I. Are we done?" She loved the look of confusion that came over him. "I delivered the message I was supposed to. He wanted you to know the truth and now you know."

"A message?" Bobby inquired. "All that? Why?"

She clicked her tongue a bit before answering. "So when I kill you, you die knowing all of this fighting was for nothing." She nodded toward the box on the table. "Thanks for wrapping that up for me."

Karen lifted her hands and broke the ropes like she'd been bound by string. Bobby's eye's widened, just before he was thrown back into wall. She stood up and dusted herself off, looking up at the trap and leering.

"This was fun," she stepped out from under the Key of Solomon. "Surprised? Some of us are evolving past your archaic methods."

Bobby groaned, ribs broken and back sore. He started to crawl for the Colt, but Karen stepped in front of him and picked it up from the table. She pointed it at Bobby and faked sympathy. "Tell the Winchesters 'hello' for me."

The sound of the shot made him cringe and look away, but it hadn't come from the Colt. Something entirely different. Karen was thrown back into the table, on impact from a shotgun salt shell blast.

The Colt spun to the ground before Bobby, and he looked up to see Joshua standing in the doorway.

"I thought you said you had this covered," Joshua said.

Karen screamed, the force behind it blowing out the windows in the attic. She then took some of the left over shards and sent them toward Joshua. He ducked, a few catching his upper arm and cheek before lodging in the wall behind him.

She then lunged for the Colt, but Bobby was faster. He put the nose of the weapon right in her face and prepared himself to pull the trigger. Nothing in him betraying the hesitation he'd had earlier.

"Ready to fail her too?" Karen asked.

Bobby compressed the trigger slightly, unflinching, cold. "Wars a comin'. Or so you say. You'll be the first demonic bitch I take out of the fight."

The demon within Karen didn't wait to see if he was serious. Her head flung back and black mist shot up aggressively from her throat, pouring out one of the broken windows and into the night.

Karen collapsed and Bobby knelt down to check for a pulse. He caught a weak one and was overcome with relief. She'd live. They'd been able to save her.

He looked up at Joshua with gratitude before he laid into him. "I told you to go!"

"I know. I know. You're freakin' welcome," he shouted up the stairs as he sprinted down them, taking them several at a time.

"I'll be right behind you. Take John's truck," Bobby called after him. Karen was starting to come around and Bobby was glad for that. He would only stay around long enough to make sure she was all right, and then he'd be there to help Joshua.

Demon's lie…but was that a lie he had to keep telling himself to keep from going crazy at that moment?

_You failed them…_

Bobby shifted Karen's weight into him and started to lift her, crying out softly against the fractures in his ribs. Adrenaline and his potentially misplaced optimism was all that was helping him move forward.

* * *

Sam watched the demon open up his brother. Watched powerlessly as the Demon moved his finger across the air slowly, slicing open the dark shirt and exposing the almost surgical cut beneath. The thin line of blood created there opening slowly, and flowing faster and more freely.

Sam's eyes took in the nightmare before him as Dean screamed and struggled to get free, the muscles in his neck bulging as he pressed his head back against the column and cried out the most soul shattering sound Sam has ever heard.

Sam fought and screamed himself, pulling with everything he had to get free. He looked up and saw that Dean was staring right at him, wide green eyes pleading for him to do something, anything. Sam watched his brother's blood covered lips form his name in supplication, just before another wave of pain cause him to look away with eyes clamped shut and another scream passed with so much ferocity from his blood filling throat that Sam felt something inside of him snap.

The Demon felt it. Its attention was away from his brother and back onto Sam. It returned to Its faceless form and turned, gold eyes narrowing in the inky blankness of its face. Sam couldn't see fear in this thing, but he felt it. Stronger than before when Dean had pulled the Colt on him.

It turned quickly back to Dean, lifting him up the pillar and unto the arch above him, letting the blood rain down onto him. Sam's eyes shot up to the sight and knew what would come next. The Demon had showed him over and over how his mother had gone…

His brother would burn alive.

Sam screamed deep from within himself he could feel the force of the protesting outcry. The pure unadulterated hatred he had for this thing. He belonged to no one. And his brother wasn't going to die for him. Not at the hand of the thing that had destroyed their lives.

He was sick of being weak. He was sick of watching the Demon toy with both of them. It had taken everyone he'd loved from him, and refused to lose Dean as well. He refused to be the reason that Dean suffered and lost his life.

His brother was looking down on him, all emotion drained from his pale face, but one; his eyes were no longer pleading for salvation, but apologizing for not stopping this.

_I failed you…_

Sam heard him. Felt his pain. And in that moment, he lost himself to unimaginable rage.

"No!"

The power that came with his command rocked the very foundations of the stone building, breaking the whole church into two parts. The columns crumbled and the altar split in half. The Colt fell to the ground right before Sam. He'd been able to pull away from his restraints.

The Demon, knowing that it was out of time, looked up at Dean and fire erupted behind him, consuming him.

It had won.

"You're mine!" It yelled back at Sam, over the raging intensity of the fire above.

He saw Sam standing there, cold, but not broken. He wasn't as the Demon had imagined he would be with his brother burning alive.

Sam could feel the confusion set into the Demon. He could see it in Its disgusting yellow eyes. Sam nodded upward and It followed Sam's eyes and saw that Dean wasn't burning. He was still alive even with the fire all around him, and dancing from his flesh, it wasn't burning, charring, blackening. It could see Dean's eyes through the flames, set in defiance, burning with a fire of their own.

The demon screamed in rage and spun around to face Sam. The younger Winchester was aiding his brother in holding back the fire. Sam raised the Colt, eyes so dark and cold that it actually made the Demon laugh.

"There you are…that's the look of my weapon."

"I told you I'd kill you."

"And to think I said you had no vision."

Sam pulled the trigger, putting everything he had into the last bullet. It entered one of the eyes and pulsed with white light, while the exit wound exploded in flame and black blood.

The fire burning around Dean returned to its source and turned on its creator. Dean was dropped to the ground, where he landed on top of the rubble from the destroyed pillars.

The Demon screamed as it burned from the inside out. Sam watched the tongues of each flame consume the demon and tear him apart. He took in the smell of sulfur and fire and let it ease over him like a healing balm. He'd never felt so full in his life, so powerful. He felt the bleeding of darkness at his core and embraced it. Wanted it. Craved it.

"Sam…"

Sam snapped back from his thoughts, eyes tearing away from the dying embers and looked over at his brother, whose body was sprawled over a large piece of stone. Dean's eyes were unfocused and Sam could see the life leaving them. Sam threw the gun and ran, but before he could reach Dean, he was blinded by the severe crushing pressure of something behind his eyes, and everything melted to white.

* * *

The first thing Sam was felt was the gunshot wound; sore, swollen and burning. His whole right side was wet with blood, which felt surprisingly cool against his flesh. His hand went to his wound and he pulled his shoulder into his body, wincing.

It was the first time he'd opened his eyes to the real world in what had seemed like a nightmarish eternity, but his eyes had opened to a sight he wished he'd never woken to. Through the darkness, washed weakly in what little light there was from the moon, he could just make out the form lying nearby.

Dean. Pale. Unmoving. Bloody.

Sam forgot the pain in his shoulder and crawled to his brother. He crouched beside him, looking down at the wound he'd inflicted. Sam saw the knife off to the side, covered with blood to the hilt. At the sight of the blade his stomach contents rose into his throat and he swallowed it back, tasting cigarettes, blood, and bile.

"Dean? Come on, Dean," Sam whispered, taking his brother's face in his hands and lifting it, hoping to get him to open his eyes. His fingers moved from Dean's jaw to his carotid and he held his breath as he pressed against his throat. There was a weak throb against his fingers, and Sam exhaled in relief.

Tears started to fall one after another, with each successive pulse. He pressed against the wound and felt the blood spill up between his fingers.

"Please, Dean…"

He felt selfish speaking those words. Please, Dean what? Please fight to live 'cause he couldn't do this alone…They'd never chosen this life. They'd never asked for this. Dean was there to protect him…but who took care of Dean?

Sam wiped at the tears with the back of his hand. "I'm gonna take care of you, Dean. Just hold on, okay?"

He saw his brother's eyes flutter, giving Sam some hope, even if it was fleeting. He looked back into the church and wondered how he was going to get Dean out of there. His wound was draining him, making him dizzy as he was kneeling. His vision was blurring but he had to stay conscious.

He pulled Dean into him and tried to think of a way to lift him over his one good shoulder. But when he tried to move him, he could feel the warmth of Dean's blood and the pull of Sam's own wound. He needed to keep Dean from bleeding out and move him at the same time. He'd never felt so stuck, so unable to do shit.

That was when he heard the truck engine coming up the hill. He continued to press into Dean's wound, and looked back to the doors of the church. When the engine cut, his heart jumped at the sound of a door opening and footsteps coming up the front steps.

"Sam! Dean!"

Sam didn't recognize the voice, but he didn't care. He didn't care what form help came in, he just needed Dean out of there.

"Here!" Sam yelled.

He then looked back at Dean. "We're going to get you out of here."

He hadn't heard Joshua approach, and didn't know he was there until the hunter had slid down beside them. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, his eyes locked onto Dean.

"Shit…"

"Help him," Sam breathed. He didn't recognize that he'd started to go down, until he felt Joshua's arms shoot out and keep him from falling onto Dean.

"Hey, Sam. Sam?"

The man's voice sounded like it was coming at him while he was underwater. It slowly reverberated through his head, muffled. His vision fizzled out at the edges of his periphery, crackling with sparks and quickly followed by darkness.

He re-awoke in the back of his father's truck, disoriented and freezing cold. He knew it was his father's truck, recognized the sound of the engine and the way it rocked with the road beneath its tires. For a moment he thought he could hear music, thought he could hear Dean's voice, thought he could smell warm night zephyr.

But he turned his head and looked at Dean and suddenly he realized that wasn't music he heard but Joshua's voice telling them to hold on. It wasn't the smell of warm night zephyr, but blood mixed with rain rank tarps. It wasn't Dean's voice at all. Dean was silent and still and Sam's ears strained to hear even the sound of his brother's breathing.

So Sam closed his eyes and thought about Dean singing Zeppelin, and warm night drives in the back of their father's truck, and he found his strength there. He focused on the shard of what was left of Dean's presence beside him and held tight to it. He connected with Dean in that memory and hoped it was enough to sustain both of them as he gave what he had left to his brother…

* * *

A/N: I had wanted to post before Thursday's episode, and I think you'll know why after reading this. The similarities freaked me out and I have months of notes on how I'd wanted this story to end...If you haven't seen the first part of the season finale then you have no idea what I'm talking about, and that's just fine. One more chapter after this and I can lay it to rest. Thank you, all of you, who have read and reviewed and put up with my month long waits between updates. I really appreciate it. Thanks to Mady Bay for her editing and Gaelicspirit for her wonderful support. 


	16. Epilogue

Epilogue

_We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.-__**Kenji Miyazawa **_

September 2001

There was something about sitting among the small patch of trees, back pushed against the rough bark and nostrils filling with the smell of freshly cut grass that put his soul in a state of peace. There was something about the weight of a hardcover volume heavy in his hands, and something about absorbing the sunshine that flickered down through the spaces in the leaves as he read philosophy. Even more soul-satisfying was the feeling of a future, a purpose, and of being a part of a dream he'd held for so long.

Sam tucked down the corner of one of his pages and looked up from the book he'd been consuming for the past hour. He watched the students walking in front of him on the paved bike path and smiled to himself thoughtfully. They were going to classes, talking about their projects and professors. They all looked like the cover of the brochure and at that moment, Sam was like one of those pictures of some goofy looking kid under a tree looking studious. His smile broadened at that thought.

Sam sat back after stretching out his long limbs and felt the tightness of his right shoulder. He rubbed the muscle and tissue, feeling the scar there, and it put him in a more somber and contemplative mood. As his finger probed the scarred flesh to release the tension, the glamour of Stanford's campus started to ebb away.

The breeze picked up slightly and Sam stared up into the branches, watching some of the leaves quiver and then fall. These were some of the few trees that weren't palms, and Sam preferred this kind of shade. He studied one particular leaf as it fell among the few others. He watched it tumble and then stop. As if time had paused for just that leaf, it hung suspended in the air for a few seconds as Sam focused on it.

He'd reached for it in his mind. Practicing like this with other things, Sam had found that he was able to manipulate small objects with his mind. It made him uncomfortable and liberated him at the same time. A part of him didn't want to able to control different items, but there was another part of him that didn't see the point in wasting what he was. Not after everything that had been sacrificed for him…

He would never forget the night he'd lain in his father's truck bed, his blood mixing with Dean's, pouring out through their wounds. He remembered all the sensations of fear and desperation that had accompanied that night. The victory over the demon was overshadowed and insignificant compared to Sam's distraught attempts to keep his brother with him. That night they were free from their eighteen-year-old curse, but the price of freedom…

_Is Dean alright? Is my brother alright!?_

Sam could still smell the coppery aroma of blood. He could still see the translucent complexion of Dean's blood-starved flesh…see the thick pools of blood beneath his motionless body as the hospital staff lifted him from the truck bed…

He'd forgotten what pain felt like in those moments. Numb. Until some paramedic reached him and started to lift him. The flash of pain through his shoulder lit up his mind. It made him fight back fatigue and those trying to help him from bleeding out.

_M' fine... J…just tell me he's okay…Is he even alive? Dean… Dean!_

He'd been too absorbed with the memories playing back through his mind, that he'd stopped looking _at_ the leaf. He was back there-the night he'd watched them roll his brother away-not under a tree with his hazel irises pinned to a piece of greenery which remained in rebellion against the laws of physics. Concentrating like this sometimes brought back that night. His personal hell always seemed to come through with his "gift."

Buried in a daydream state, he hadn't noticed someone approaching until she dropped her face in front of his. His concentration was broken by the cascade of golden hair and the flash of soulful blue eyes. The leaf continued to fall, broken from its suspended animation, and Sam's eyes were now locked on a new target. All memories of cold, blood, and fear washed away for a moment by the warmth of curious eyes and a broad smile.

"Hegel?" she asked, pointing the book in Sam's hands and wrinkling her nose. "Vermilia right?"

Sam blinked a few times to clear the thick haze within his mind while not fully understanding what she was talking about. When it finally came home he laughed and shook his head. "Vermilia's a professor here isn't he? I've heard some of the students complain about him."

The girl took a seat in front of him and Sam sat up more so he could talk with her.

"Sorry," she said, "I just saw the book and thought maybe you were in one of his classes. I have the morning session with him. The guy gave us a book list that still has my head spinning. I was…kind of hoping you'd know something about surviving a course in Philosophy with him, since it looked like you were getting the jump on Hegel."

Sam shook his head, "Sorry to disappoint…I'm actually…just visiting."

"Oh!" the girl looked surprised and slightly embarrassed. "Geez, I'm two for two here." She shook her head, blond curls going in all directions about her face as she tried to hide the fresh red inlaid to her cheeks. "You just looked so at home. I'm Jessica Moore by the way…sorry, kind of skipped the whole introduction and went right for Hegel."

Sam laughed. "I see how it is." He held up the book. "I know Hegel's a stud and everything…"

"No no no…" Jessica laughed. She then tilted her head and smiled softly. "I'll admit that I've been waiting to slip in and meet you. You were just so absorbed I didn't want to bother you."

"Oh?" Sam asked. "So it wasn't Hegel."

"Not really," she pointed across the path to where a bike was propped against another tree with a backpack. "I was waiting to see if you and Hegel had a thing going on or if you were available."

Sam nodded at that, his smile felt so big that he hoped he wasn't about to scare her with it. He extended his hand. "Sam Winchester."

She took his hand and shook it before wrapping her arms around her knees. "So…just visiting? Really?"

Sam got a distant look in his eyes as he nodded, "Yeah…I was going to attend here this Fall."

"What happened?"

Sam exhaled forcefully and pulled in his lower lip, his eyes disappearing behind his long bangs as he bowed his head. "Um…I lost someone recently. I just need time…"

Jessica nodded in understanding, her blue eyes wide with empathy. She bit her lip and suddenly found interest in the grass at her feet, twirling it with her fingers. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"Yeah…" _So am I…_

"Do you think you will ever come here?" She asked.

"Someday," Sam smiled weakly. "I actually spoke with Admissions and the Dean. Told them my situation. They can't promise me the same scholarships, but they'll consider them and told me to send in my apps again for the next school year if I change my mind."

"You were accepted though?" Jessica asked.

"Full ride," Sam said shyly.

He'd never seen someone's face light up so fast. It was definitely a response he hadn't experienced.

"No kidding? Wow, that's wonderful," she said, impressed.

"Yeah," Sam smiled weakly. His dreams were at the edge of his fingertips. It was right there in front of him, tangible and still a possibility…but there was something he knew in his heart that he needed to do.

"I'm sure you can land that again," Jessica tried to reassure him. She'd watched his face fall and was now trying hard to help him be proud of such an accomplishment, even if he wasn't going to be able to experience the reward of it currently. She pushed off the ground and dusted off her khaki shorts, extending a hand to him. "Come with me."

Sam looked up at her extended hand and knitted his brow. "Come where?"

"Well, since you _will_ be a student here someday you'll need to know the lay of the land," she said matter-of-factly. "You're looking at a fourth generation Stanford student," she said with mock seriousness. Sam loved the way she half pouted her lips when she went straight to business. She pretended to get frustrated when he didn't take her hand. "Sam, come on," she laughed. "My offer expires in three…two…"

Sam took her hand and was pulled to his feet. He shoved the massive book in his messenger bag and walked with her to get her bike.

"Ready for your tour, Mr. Winchester?" she asked, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

Sam motioned with his hand for her to lead the way, "After you."

* * *

A couple hours and two black twenty-ounce coffees later, they were sitting on the steps outside of one of the dorms. Jessica was still pointing out things as they rested and talking about more background of the campus. Sam was enjoying every second of it. She was brilliant, and not just with how she could recount all of this information for the tour, but with who she was. Sam not only listened to her stories about campus, but about home and life and her major in Anthropological Studies and Linguistics. 

"Stanford is the second largest campus in the world, first being the University of Moscow. The campus is its own city," Jessica beamed and sat forward on the steps. Then she started counting off the attributes on her fingers, bobbing her head for emphasis. Sam found her enthusiasm contagious.

"It has its own zip code, fire department, US post office, medical center, gas station, shopping mall…Am I going too fast for you, Sam?" She laughed as she noticed the glazed look that had come over his eyes.

"No," he smirked. "You're doing fine, Jess…Just between the full history of the library, the statues, the buildings, the one cafeteria we went into…" he said while mocking her finger counting method.

"Okay, I get it," she said shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "I'll tone it down a little…"She looked around where they were and sighed. "What else…what else…Oh, Hoover Tower. In 1944, a female student, the daughter of an administrator, jumped off of Hoover Tower because she didn't get a bid for a sorority. The sororities were banned for a while. So if you like ghost stories, some people say she's still walking around here…"

She watched his face go taut and his eyes dark. "Have you seen her? Does anyone get hurt who comes across her?"

Jess raised a brow and shook her head. "What? Sam? It's a _story_. No, I haven't seen a ghost…" She then took away his coffee. "No more of this for you."

Sam huffed and shook his head. "Yeah, just a story…sorry…"

And there was one of his biggest revelations that day. One he'd already had, several times over, but each time it came up, it stunned him with how painfully obvious it should be. He wasn't normal, and normal was something he could always pretend to be, but could never fully attain. _It's a story…Never with me or my family…_

Jess gave a sweet smile, slightly laced with concern, and got up to stretch. She caught a glimpse of the time in her watch and sighed. "I'm meeting some people for dinner. You're welcome to come. I'll show you some of the dorms real quick and then I'll introduce you to some of my friends."

Sam smiled, hoping to God it didn't look as sad as he felt right then. He'd love to meet her friends, and get dinner…He'd love to stay. Sam knew if he spent any more time with her and in this place he might change his mind. He knew his heart felt like it was stapled to the stair he was sitting on. Dreams and desires, real and tangible, as real as the cool stone beneath his fingertips.

Sam noted the time and sighed, "I'd love to but…"

"You have to get going?" Jess asked, disappointment clear and present in her eyes.

Sam's smile weakened. "Yeah."

"Need me to take you anywhere? I kind of took us all over," Jess asked, shoving her hands into her pockets.

"Could we head toward Cedro?" Sam asked.

Jess nodded to the right. "Sure thing. It's on the way to mine."

When they reached the dorm, Sam stopped and turned to thank his tour guide. She'd been an amazing help and even if she didn't know it, she'd been what he needed to take his mind away from dark memories. Memories that threatened to swallow him at times these past few months.

"Thank you for the tour and, uh, I'll definitely have to check out 'the Dish.' I mean it's not everyday you can go jog around the four mile circumference of a radio telescope."

Jess laughed, "No, no it's not." She reached into her bag and took out a small notebook and pen. She tore out a page with the pen clamped between her teeth and steadied herself against one of the nearby garden ledges. She then wrote down her number and handed it to him, smiling at the surprise on his face. "You'd think you'd never gotten a girl's number before, Sam."

He laughed lightly, taking the number and rubbing the back of his head. _That's usually Dean's thing…_

"Call me anytime you have questions," she offered.

"Or anytime I need another tour?"

"Just…anytime," she said before pressing her lips together. "See you soon, Sam." She gave her goodbye and then turned to leave.

"See you…" Sam said, watching her leave.

She turned back a few times still smiling and looking like she wanted to stay. "I better see you around here next year!"

Sam just smiled his response, inwardly knowing he couldn't make such a promise. He gave her a short wave and indulged in the last few seconds of her smile before she turned for the last time and disappeared around the side of the dorm.

Sam turned and started for the parking lot where the he'd left the Impala. He'd made it only a few steps when he noticed his talk with Jess hadn't gone unnoticed.

Dean was leaning against the side of the dorm, watching Sam approach. He had one of his trademark prepare-to-be-harassed grins. Sam shot him a warning look, but he knew he couldn't dodge this bullet. He simply shook his head and braced himself to take it, knowing he deserved it…because he still hadn't told Dean something that he needed to…

Sam would take his brother's snark and enjoy the fact that at least Dean cared enough to piss him off.

Dean pushed away from the wall and joined Sam on the walk to the car. "She is so out of your league, Dude."

* * *

Dean had spent the afternoon giving Sam some space. They were there to move him into Stanford, and even though they were a week late for move in and registration for classes, they weren't alone. They'd met several students who were doing the same thing. None of them had been delayed by demons that had torn them apart, but they were all getting into classes later then expected, and Dean didn't feel so bad after learning that Sam had some peers in the same situation. 

After meeting Sam's roommate, Frank, a pot-head who'd given Sam the how-to's of masking the smell of weed from the Resident Assistants, Dean had harassed Sam about the finer points of running steam in the showers and sticking towels under the doors. Dean had scoffed at the roommate's pathetic taste in music and had assured Sam that he could have his tape collection if that would make things less painful. Sam had replied that he was pretty sure that was unnecessary and he wouldn't dream of separating Dean from his life-blood.

It wasn't until Dean saw a girl in the hallway in only a towel and turned to make a comment, that he saw a definite look of distance on his brother's face. Dean didn't know if it was directed at him or not. Sam had been stand-offish all day and Dean was wondering if maybe it was him. Maybe he wasn't helping with moving Sam in, and maybe Sam just preferred to be alone while he acclimated. Whatever the case, Dean decided to back off and when Sam told him he needed to go register for classes, Dean had told him to take his time and not to worry about him. They could just meet at the dorm for dinner.

They hadn't moved in—Sam's single duffel would surely be a challenge to unpack. So Dean thought nothing about Sam not making any movement toward getting to know his roommate or unpacking. He just figured the kid was so tightly wound by the size of the place and his analytical working through how he was going to catch up on a week of study, that Dean didn't give much thought to Sam's behavior—or the fact that he headed in the opposite direction of the Records building.

Dean wasn't all there anyway. He'd known this day would come. He'd known that day in Colorado, when he'd sat with Sam on the Impala while they had a beer, that this was it. Sam was going onto bigger and better things and Dean had to be at peace with that or he'd lose it. The Demon was gone and Sam could take care of himself. Dean didn't have to worry—too much—that Sam would be safe. And Dean wouldn't be alone; he already had a hunt in West Texas with Joshua and Bobby…

He resolved within himself that he was at peace…as long as Sam was living his dreams.

Dean had taken to the campus for a few hours, talking with students and trying to do a little recon work for Sam. He'd already learned what cafeterias to avoid and which ones to use. He'd learned what professors Sam should take and which ones would fail him to fulfill their god-complexes. He learned which dorms threw the best parties and he had an entire list of bars and clubs that came highly recommended from cheerleaders, Tammy and Brooke. And just because Sam was the biggest geek he knew, he'd grabbed up the library hours and found out about a few Poly-Sci clubs Sam could join.

As he did all this, he could hear his father's voice… could hear one of his father's final requests: _Tell him for me…I wanted to drive him to school. I wanted to help him move in…and carry those damn boxes. I wanted to see him get his diploma…not in the mail like his high school one…on a platform in the whole robe get-up…_

This was the best way Dean knew how to tell Sam. This was the best way Dean knew how to honor his father's request. He'd already told Sam that their father was proud. He'd already told Sam what their father had said before he'd died…but Dean knew it was through doing this for Sam now, that he'd know his family supported him in this decision. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and Dean was determined to reverse any thinking that had been ingrained in Sam the night of the argument.

He'd seen it in Sam's eyes the night they'd burned their father's body with Joshua and Bobby's help. Dean had seen the guilt present behind his brother's glassed-over irises. His tears weren't even scratching the surface of the pain Dean knew Sam was in.

His brother dealt in silent pain after their father's death, he wasn't even up for talking about it. Dean dealt in aggressive pain when no one was looking. After Dean had made a decent recovery, he had taken a crowbar to some of Bobby's junkyard scrap metal. At times Dean wished Sam had joined him. The kid needed an outlet…

Their father's "funeral"…Dean had barely been able stand, but he'd forced himself to do so out of respect. Sam had no strength in his right shoulder, and they'd needed Bobby and Joshua to prepare the pyre, but they'd wanted to be present and neither of them were ones for hospitals. As dangerous as leaving against medical advice had been for both of them, less then a week after their battle at the church, they had wanted out. After the funeral they'd spent time at Bobby's recovering from their wounds…

The physical ones at least…

Dean had finished up around campus and had returned to Cedro to wait for Sam. It was then that he'd received the call from Bobby about the West Texas hunt.

"How's he liking it?" Bobby asked.

Dean leaned against the building with his cell phone and shrugged. "Sammy's…I think he's in shock," Dean said.

"How are you holding up?"

That was the question, now wasn't it? Dean didn't think the real answer would be something he wanted to admit just yet. He knew Bobby would settle for the answer Dean had been giving for months now.

"I'm fine," Dean answered.

"Bullshit," Bobby came back quickly.

Dean figured his typical response was getting pretty worn and weathered by this point. "I feel like shit. That better?"

He could hear Bobby sigh. "Honest and understandable. You know he'll be fine, Dean, right?"

"Yeah..." Dean responded absently.

Bobby sensed it was crucial to switch subjects and Dean was grateful for the new direction.

"I was calling about the hunt, just making sure you were still up for it."

"Hell yes," Dean sighed. "Damn I'm so bored. I can't get out there fast enough. Months of lying down and just breathing…looking after that ugly dog of yours…"

"Rumsfeld is one of a kind, boy."

"You name every fugly dog you own, Rumsfeld."

"It's a good name…Why am I defending myself? Damn, you're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"I try," Dean smiled.

"Lord help me, I've got you and Joshua to look after on this hunt. I don't want to have to get both of your smart asses out of a sling, so I need to know you're one hundred percent up for this shit, Dean."

"Bring it on," Dean said. He shifted the phone to one shoulder so he could undo one of the leather straps around his wrist. He rubbed at the nail scar that had started to hurt, massaging out the flare up that had occurred. "I can meet you in a couple of days in Lamesa."

"We'll keep in touch," Bobby assured him. "Take care of yourself, Dean."

Dean closed the phone and dropped it into a pants pocket before messing around with the leather piece to conceal his scar again. It was approaching the time that they'd agreed to meet outside of Cedro, and Dean wasn't one for boredom. Lately, being left alone with his thoughts only took him back to places he didn't want to venture.

He cursed as the leather was giving him fits and decided to just screw it. He tucked the band into his pocket and then had a seat on one of the benches nearby. He moved slowly, feeling the tight pull of his sore and scarred abdominal tissues.

Dean was looking forward to Lamesa. They had the Colt and five bullets to use if they ever came across something that big, but the Lamesa hunt was of the typical salt and burn variety. Not nearly the adrenaline rush and distraction Dean had been wanting for months now, but it was something to do, and Dean _needed_ something to do.

He looked down at his wrist, the red scar there taunting him. He wore the leather straps not to hide the scars from others, but from himself. They were reminders of too much.

The night he'd faced off against the yellow-eyed Demon, he'd died. Several times. The first time was in the back of truck. He'd somehow known, just known, that he was done, and he'd listened to the slowing of his own heart until it had given out. He could remember silent darkness and the strong urge to let go. He'd been ready to…until he'd woken up in the memory from his youth that he'd shown Sam. Until he felt himself being pulled back into that memory, Dean could have sworn he'd let go.

And he wished that he had let go the second he could feel again.

Pain, biting, searing, and tearing through every synapse, let him know he wasn't dead. The cold of his own blood and the rain he was soaked in was more than his body could compensate for and he'd been unable to even shiver for warmth. He could remember paramedics, and doctors yelling, lifting, poking and tearing at him to get to wounds and return blood to him. It was too bad that for everything they poured in he was losing much more on the table.

It was on the operating table he'd died again. With eyes open, staring up into the overpowering white light of the operating table lamps, he'd felt himself go for a second time. He'd turned his head and saw the monitor displaying his flat line and he'd stared at it detached and once again free from pain. A part of him had always known he'd die fighting, and he had peace with that.

Among the mass of scrub adorned personnel, all working frantically on getting him revived, he saw someone else. And he knew in that moment that he'd felt that presence before. Once while he was sleeping, and twice by his bedside. The third person in his hospital room the night he went to save Sam. His father.

John had come beside the table, and had placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. His face was mostly hidden by the white lights above, but Dean could still make out his smile. The pride and peace that it held was telling Dean that everything would be alright now. That he'd "done good."

Dean had started to reach for his father's hand, but couldn't move. He felt something spark within his chest, all limbs leaden, and the pain returned with such intensity that he had to retreat into unconsciousness to escape it.

He'd been unaware that the monitor had started to count off the beats of his heart again. He'd been unaware that his body had started to fight again to live. He'd been unaware that what he was living to protect wasn't ready for him to leave.

When Dean had finally come back from it all, he knew. He knew the reason he was still alive was Sam, and that his role in Sam's life was far from over. Whatever piece of his brother lied within him, it had refused to let him go.

Dean sat back on the bench and looked up at the sky. How was one supposed to get their head around being what Dean was? Around what Sam was? At times he wondered if he'd been spared from death by Sam's presence because there was still something he had to accomplish or protect his brother from. The list of his own personal existential dilemmas was long, but he'd always accepted the idea that he was his brother's keeper. His guardian. It was a role he'd filled his entire life, and so what if destiny, or whatever was out there had decided it was his life's purpose? Dean had decided that was his purpose long before the Demon had revealed it to him.

Sam was taking longer than Dean had anticipated checking out the campus. Restless, Dean got up and returned to the wall of Cedro to wait for Sam, flipping open his cell to get a hold of his brother. It was then that he saw Sam talking with a girl and getting a phone number. Dean watched as Sam gave her a smile before turning back to the building.

Dean couldn't help himself and he saw that Sam knew it by the look his younger brother was giving him. It was one of Sam's trademark "Dean-say-one-word-and-I'll kill-you" glares, but Dean figured he'd already died a couple of times and it was too good to pass up…

"She is so out of your league, Dude," Dean smiled.

"Shut up," Sam sighed, but he refused to stop smiling.

"So, I did some recon work for you, Sammy." Dean dug into his pockets and pulled out a fistful of papers and what appeared to be napkins. He put them all together and started to read through them. "Alright so I've got like ten girl's phone number's here…"

"You what?" Sam asked.

"Well, now you have eleven, eh?" Dean said slapping Sam's arm. He then handed Sam ten slips of paper, all contained phone numbers, and some bore lipstick. "According to Tammy…"

"Tammy?" Sam laughed. "I'm surprised you actually got her name."

"Hey!" Dean mocked offense. "I did this for you, little brother. A little gratitude. Please. As I was saying, Tammy knows where all the good bars are, or so she claims."

Sam rolled his eyes and leafed through the small stack of papers. "I see…and uh, Christa?" Sam held up one napkin with dark red lipstick. "She another girl you think I should get to know?"

Dean studied the name and then tore the napkin away from Sam. "Actually, that one is mine," Dean grinned. "But I'm not done, Sam. Apparently one of the fraternities likes to throw flaming couches out the windows. I'm still working on finding out which one, but that's pretty flippin' sweet. Oh and this place, Sam, you have to check out- 'Full Moon on the Quad' or whatever it's called. On the first full moon of the year freshman line up and seniors kiss them. It's a little like a massive orgy. You didn't tell me this place was so…"

"You can stop right there, Dean," Sam feigned being annoyed. "No seriously. Stop or I'll make you stop."

"Come on, Sammy, that's the real reason you wanted to come here, isn't it, you sly dog?" Dean beamed, knowing he was being a pain.

"Are you trying to fill a quota or something before you leave?" Sam asked. He was pretending to be mad, but it was hard when his smile kept creeping up on his face.

"You're going to miss me. Admit it."

"No," Sam laughed. "Go. Now."

Dean lowered his head, pretending to be hurt. "Look. I did do some serious work. I promise." Dean handed Sam more papers and pointed to the names as he spoke. "I hear this guy teaches the best course in Philosophy. This guy the best course in History, if there is such a thing. These people you want to talk to about getting involved with shadowing some of the legal practices around the campus," Dean shrugged. "I even got some of the library hours for you, Geek boy."

"That was very thoughtful of you," Sam half joked, half meant. Dean was making it harder for Sam to tell him what he'd decided.

"Dean…"

"Oh, talked a little with your roommate, Frank. The guy is way too possessive of his television…"

"Dean…"

"So I thought after dinner, we could get you unpacked and go to Target or something…"

"Dean!"

"What?" Dean asked annoyed. "Shit, Sam, I'm right here."

"I'm not going," Sam revealed.

"To what? Dinner? Target? I had no idea you had something against it. I'm sure there's a Wal-mart…"

"Dean, I'm not going to attend Stanford this year. Maybe not even next year…"

Dean's mouth hung open in mid-thought as he processed that. "Sam, this is it. This is what you've always wanted. You're standing here at Wussy State and you're telling me that you don't want this?"

"What about you?" Sam asked.

"What about me?" Dean asked, his eyes pleading with Sam not to do this. "No. Sam. Don't even…"

"I'm coming with you, Dean."

"The Demon is dead. I'll be fine. You've got this once in a lifetime opportunity at your damn fingertips. I'm not gonna let you throw that away."

"There are too many things we don't know. There are others out there like me…you heard the yellow-eyed Demon, they don't just_ belong_ to him. And yeah, you may be fine, Dean…at least that's what you keep saying, but maybe I want this. Maybe I want to come with you."

"No, Sam."

"I already withdrew…" Sam said, standing his ground. "You're stuck with me."

Dean swore. Never could he have imagined that he'd be standing here fighting so hard to make Sam stay at Stanford.

"Dad's gone." Sam continued. "I've been thinking, 'bout what's really important…" He cleared his throat. "I just need time, Dean. You and me, we're all that's left. So if we're going to get through this…I mean…you shouldn't have to go it alone…"

Dean looked at the ground, "I didn't ask you to do this…"

"I know. Dean, I want this. I want to hunt…right now."

Dean shook his head, a smirk forming. "You'd think someone had just squeezed your balls with how much effort that took you to say."

Sam huffed and nodded. "Yeah, well…I mean it. I'll always have your back."

Dean heard his own words to Sam being returned. He'd needed to hear that. He'd needed to know that, even if a part of him always had.

"You already withdrew?" Dean asked, still slightly disappointed in his brother. He hoped that the relief he also felt wasn't leaking through at all. The truth was that Dean knew he could do this alone…he just didn't want to.

"Yep. I'm officially out of here…" Sam said, eyes searching Dean for some sort of a reaction.

"I could kick your ass," Dean said angrily.

"I know…" Sam said shifting his weight nervously. "So am I homeless? Or will you let me into the car?"

"You have to walk the first fifty miles," Dean replied.

Sam laughed. "I figured as much."

* * *

They'd stopped at a rest stop along I-40, somewhere between Flagstaff and Gallop, Sam had lost track. He was waiting for Dean to come back with food and needed to stretch his legs. Sam got out of the car and started to walk along the woods at the edge of the rest stop. 

There was a bridge over a small river and Sam stopped in the middle of the structure and leaned over the railing. He yawned and checked his watch, noting that it was approaching five in the morning. He would offer to drive as soon as Dean got back, so his brother could get some sleep.

Sam caught himself smiling and shook his head. Ever since they'd left his thoughts had drifted back to Jessica and the campus. He wasn't regretting his decision, just curious about what could have been. He reached into his pocket to get her number. He pulled out the research stack Dean had given him and shook his head as he leafed through it all to get to Jessica's number.

He found it, entered it into his phone, and then wadded up everything to shove back into his pockets. Maybe he'd call her…maybe he'd just leave it alone. Despite the attraction he had to her, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was safer without him around.

As he shoved both hands down into his jacket pockets, his right hand came down against the sharp edges of something folded. Sam pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and felt his heart clench before he opened it up. He already knew what it was.

Sam opened up the acceptance letter and looked at the smudged lettering and torn edges. It was the letter that had started it all. He could still hear the angry words he'd spewed forth with venom. At the time, he'd defended this piece of paper with everything that was in him.

_God! Can't you just be happy for me? Just this once?_

Dean had told him later that their father was proud, that he'd just had trouble expressing it. He'd been scared…

Sam exhaled forcefully, trying to breathe out that night and trying to clear his mind. He was starting over. He knew what was important to him now. It didn't lie within the walls of Stanford. Not now. No, what Sam had come to realize was that he only had one family, and in a life full of darkness, that had been the only true light. As messed up and as screwed up as they were, they were still family. And right now, the remnant of his family needed him…and while he wouldn't come right out and admit it, Sam needed his brother.

_No matter what you choose, Sam, I'll always have your back._

Sam had echoed Dean's words today, and he'd meant them.

"I choose this," Sam said, holding out the letter over the water. He set it on fire with an effortless look and watched it burn right down to his fingertips before he released it. His eyes followed the glow of the curling letter until it hit the glass-like surface of the river and smoldered out.

Sam made his way back to the car just as Dean was exiting the building. They met in front of the Impala and Dean tossed Sam a small brown bag.

"Yesterday's cinnamon rolls and microwave breakfast burritos," Dean said. "It was that or beef jerky and Mountain Dew."

Sam looked down at the bag and made a face. "God, I love our diet. Coffee?"

Dean held up the drink carrier. "Does the Pope ride in a glass box?"

"I can drive," Sam offered.

"Actually, I'm doing alright," Dean said as he got in behind the wheel.

Sam got in and took one look inside the bag of breakfast selections before closing it back up. He'd stick with coffee for now.

"You sure you've got this next stretch?" Sam asked.

"I've got coffee, and…" Dean reached under his seat and pulled out a box of tapes. He found one he was looking for and shoved it into the tape deck. "…and Hetfield to keep me going."

Sam picked up his brother's sacred tape collection and started to go through it.

"Dude, you gotta update your cassette tape collection," Sam poked.

"Why?" Dean asked.

"Well for one they are cassette tapes. And two, Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica...it's the greatest hits of mullet rock."

"House rules, Sammy, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole," Dean said before tossing the tape case back into the box. He then turned up the music and shot Sam a grin before pulling out onto the road.

Sam slouched down in his seat and leaned against the door to rest. With the windows down, Dean's voice accompanying Metallica lyrics, and the sound of the road beneath their tires, he knew without a doubt that this was where he was supposed to be.

-Fin-

* * *

A/N: I'm kind of in shock that this is over. I want to thank all of you who have read and reviewed this story and have stuck it out with me. I am so grateful for you guys and you've made writing this an awesome experience. Special thanks to gaelicspirit for challenging me and supporting me along the way. Also, thanks for giving this chapter a read through! Thanks and so many cookies to Mady Bay for editing all along with me, and thanks to November's Guest and Eyelyo for the early edits and encouragement. Again, thanks to all my readers! I love you guys and I wish you all the best. 

-Sojourner/ Claire Kennedy

5/25/07 -I'll be out of town for a few days, so it will take me a while to respond to anyone who reviews. Thank you in advance and please know I'm not ignoring you. Take care.


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